The Dangers of Buying Birthday Presents
by TierneyMacDonald
Summary: All Kayla Abbots wanted was to find a birthday present for her sister. Instead, she finds herself sucked into the backstage of one of the most classic musicals of all time. 2004 movieverse.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. All credit goes to Andrew Lloyd Webber and respective owners. **

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><p><span>1<span>

All Kayla Abbots wanted was to find a birthday present for her sister.

The only reason she had wandered into the old antique and jewellery shop in the first place was to get her hands on some kind of gift. When she saw the beautiful ruby rose hung on a delightfully old-fashioned gold chain, her only thought was that she had seriously lucked out.

Sunlight crawled through the dusty window as Kayla strode happily to the till. As he rang up her purchase, the elderly proprietor of the shop gazed at the necklace amusedly. "Did you know that this necklace was intended for film?" he revealed conversationally.

Kayla looked up from the depths of her purse, where her wallet was trying to play hide-and-seek. "Not a modern movie, I have no doubt," she laughed. "It's too classy for that… which movie was it?"

The old man smiled. "The Phantom of the Opera," he confided. "Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical, of course." He spoke the composer's name with undisguised reverence.

"From 2004?" Kayla clarified, and grinned. "Was it intended for Emmy Rossum?" she guessed as she handed over the required bills.

The gentleman nodded proudly. "Yes, for the beautiful Christine Daäe. A pity that this piece never made it into the film itself," he sighed.

"This is perfect!" Kayla remarked excitedly, not bothering to inquire as to how a Hollywood set piece had made its way to an antique store in Calgary of all places, though she did not doubt the man's honesty. "It's my sister's birthday get-together tonight, and I've been looking for a good present for ages. Samantha adores Phantom of the Opera; she'll love this more than words can describe."

The old man's face relaxed into a patchwork of delighted crinkles. "I've always fancied this artifact," he mused. "I will be able to rest easy now, knowing that it will be going to a good home. Your sister is quite a fan, I take it?"

"Obsessive, more like," Kayla answered airily. "She knows almost everything; the book, the movie, the musical… she's seen it all. She can literally recite the movie off from memory, and she's got this crazy knack for knowing all of the characters and how they all interact and why. Plus she plays clarinet, piano, and guitar, so she can play all the songs as well."

"Your sister sounds like quite a fascinating person," the man chuckled.

"She'd live in that world if she could," Kayla shook her head ruefully.

"Powerful wishes like that have a way of coming true in different ways," the man suggested softly. "Be sure to wish your sister a happy birthday from me."

"Will do! Thank you very much!" Kayla waved cheerfully, tucking the simple paper bag into her purse as she pushed open the glass door. As she walked over to her car, she made a mental note to visit that shop again; it could be quite the treasure trove of props and accessories, and also housed a chance for some decent, interesting conversation. Kayla went into a reverie as she considered all the history and stories that were hidden on the shelves.

Fat, thick flakes of snow floated gently down out of a grey sky as Kayla slid into her car and placed her bag and the precious present onto the passenger seat. _If I can get home fast enough, I can wrap this and still make it to Mom and Dad's for Samantha's party by seven_, she mentally calculated as she pulled away from the curb.

Kayla was so focused on making it back to her downtown apartment in time to wrap the stupid present and still be on time for the party that she almost ran a red light. She just barely avoided entering the intersection as the light changed, but as there was barely anyone on that particular road at the time, she thankfully did not cause an accident. What she _did_ cause, however, was for the necklace to slide out of its bag, out of her purse, and fly in a graceful arc towards her car floor. Kayla did the stupid thing and lunged for it, catching the delicate chain by the tips of her fingers. "Oh no, you don't," she warned the inanimate object, trying to keep her eyes on the road as she put the present back into the bag. While attempting this, her fingers brushed, for the first time, against the jeweled petals of the pendant.

There was a bright flash of light, immediately followed by complete darkness. She felt her stomach trying to make an escape through her throat as she fell, but the only thing she could truly comprehend at the moment was how late she was going to be for her fourteen year old sister's party.

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><p><strong>Read and Review! <strong>

**Thanks! Tierney**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Ownership of the Phantom of the Opera is held by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and other such owners. I only take credit for my original characters. **

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><p><span>2<span>

Kayla landed with a jolt on what felt like the plushiest carpet she had ever encountered. Stumbling backwards, she found herself sitting on an equally plushy chair, which her exploring fingers identified as being covered with velvet. A blind reach forward uncovered velvet curtains bunched off to her left. It was still black as pitch, meaning that she was blind as a bat. Further exploration revealed that her black leather messenger bag was sitting on a seat next to her, and the necklace that was currently taking the blame for this mess was hanging around her neck. "What the heck?" she whispered. Pulling the pendant from its position on her collarbone, Kayla gave it a gentle squeeze. Nothing happened. "I need to get home, I need to get home, I need to get home," she prayed, and pressed her fingers to the carved ruby for a second time. The result was the same.

"Well, screw you!" Kayla hissed angrily, imagining that the rose was laughing at her. She swore again. As the curse crossed her lips, she heard footsteps echoing somewhere in front of her. Shrinking back into her seat, Kayla waited in silence as the footsteps continued, slowed, and stopped. There was a whoosh, and a flicker of light below her. The light began to move and multiply until a curved line of flame illuminated the dark, polished wood of a large stage. With an electrical-sounding hum, a soft glow began to emanate from above Kayla's head. Growing brighter and brighter, flickering gas bulbs glittered and sparkled through the crystals of an enormous chandelier. Kayla slowly got up and peered over the edge of the half wall that stood in front of her chair. Below her there were rows and rows of gorgeous looking red velvet chairs, with pristinely polished armrests. Gold embossed private seating boxes jutted out from the high walls, and blindfolded statues proudly gallivanted on the ceiling. To her right, Kayla saw the scenery on the stage shifting – an unmistakable sign of a rehearsal. It took another long look at the chandelier to make her realize where she was: the Opera Populaire.

Kayla continued to watch the stage, crouching down under the edge of her opera box in an attempt to stay completely out of sight. Musicians of all varieties were streaming into the orchestra pit, lugging their instruments along with them. The conductor, whose name Kayla believed to be Maestro Reyer, was arranging piles of sheet music on a small podium. As the orchestra began to warm up, the performers bustled onto the stage. Carlotta, the A-class diva, followed by her husband, Piangi… at least, Kayla thought he was her husband. She wasn't positive. Samantha would have known. Countless others came after. From her position, Kayla had a constricted view of the rows of dancers stretching in the wings, led by the always impressive Madame Giry, whose name was impossible to forget. As she watched, two more ballerinas sprinted into the line; the short, golden haired Meg Giry, and OH MY GOODNESS EMMY ROSSUM! No, Kayla reflected - after her inner fangirl had suitably calmed - Christine Daäe. There was no kidding around with this now; Kayla was undeniably in the Phantom of the Opera.

Very slowly, an awful truth began to dawn upon her. She realized that she was sitting in an opera box, on the right side of the stage when facing it, and seemed to be higher up than any box in the immediate vicinity. And there was a column in the back corner. Every piece of description of the infamous haunted box from the book and the movie came hurtling back to her with all the force of a runaway train. Oh no. Whatever force that had brought her here couldn't seriously be that morbid. Clutching her bag tightly to her chest, Kayla cautiously crawled around the edge of the wall towards the door. When she guessed she was out of sight of the stage, Kayla rose to her feet and slunk out the door. Shutting it behind her, she stared at the dark, polished wood in horror; it bore an ornate, golden 5. She, Kayla Abbots, had been sitting in the Phantom's box.

"_Skitprat, skitprat, skitprat_!" she shrieked curses in Swedish. In a fit of desperation, she twisted on the spot and willed herself home. Obviously, nothing happened. "Well, disapparation's out of the question," she muttered crossly.

And just to cap the whole debacle off, Kayla heard footsteps approaching down the hall. Fantastic. She was going to have to interact with movie characters in an 1870 setting; of all the days to have been wearing… As she looked down and registered her state of attire, her inner monologue cut short.

Where there had been a knee-length skirt, black tights, and a red sweater seemingly only minutes before, there was now a black vest over a starch white, button-up work shirt with sleeves buttoned at the wrists, and black breeches that fit her not unlike skinny jeans. Whether the hems of the pants flared out Kayla did not know, since they were tucked under sculpted, heeled leather boots. In short, the only things that had not changed were her underwear, bra, and her hair, which was still darkly-streaked blonde and in a ponytail. The rose pendant hung out over the shirt, so Kayla hurriedly stuffed it back under the buttoned collar. The voices drew closer as Kayla slung her bag over her shoulder. Quietly making sure the box door was firmly closed behind her, Kayla waited silently as three impeccably dressed men came strolling around the corner.

"The cast and crew are currently rehearsing Hannibal, which will be performed at tonight's gala," the man in the lead was explaining as the trio approached. The two following were wearing thick, glossy furs, and carrying the most ridiculous top hats Kayla had ever seen. One of them, whose dark brown hair was swooshed back so high over his head Kayla was mentally debating whether a set of teacups would be able to stand up if stacked on top, looked up at Kayla absentmindedly before jumping backward as the reality of her presence registered. His companions looked just as, if not more, startled.

"Pardon me, mademoiselle, but how did you get in here?" the first man asked hesitatingly. Kayla decided that he must be the original manager- the one who was retiring. In the book, she was pretty sure his name was Poligny, but she had a feeling that in the movie-verse this assumption was incorrect.

Since the notion of parallel universes, let alone cinema, would likely not sit well with three Frenchmen from 1870, Kayla replied honestly, "My apologies, monsieur, but I do not actually know." She examined the three men quickly, intent on identifying them. There was Monsieur not-Poligny, dark-haired with a tidy mustache, a second brunette with a silver and brown mustache- Firmin- , and a fellow with a grey curly hairstyle and mustache that Dori from the Hobbit would likely have approved of, Monsieur Andre.

"Oh! I know you!" she blurted out as she recognized the two new managers.

They appeared slightly taken-aback. "I do not believe we have met," Firmin commented in a bewildered sort of voice.

"Oh no, of course not," Kayla amended quickly. "I've just heard great things about your work in the jun… I mean, scrap metal business. It is an honour to meet you at last, Monsieur Andre and Monsieur Firmin." She curtsied, which was incredibly difficult to pull off in pants.

Andre's cheerful face grew pleased. "You see, Firmin?" he exclaimed to his partner. "There _are_ people who understand the nature of our former profession." He turned his beaming smile on the nervous girl. "What is your name, mademoiselle?"

"Kayla. Kayla Abbots," Kayla stated clearly, pleased that her voice remained perfectly steady.

Andre turned to not-Poligny. "You don't mind if I conduct a brief interview with Mademoiselle Abbots, do you dear Leverfe?"

_Finally, a name!_ Kayla silently rejoiced.

The former manager shook his head. "Even though I am incredibly curious as to how this young lady made it into the Opera Populaire undetected, dealing with her is no longer my duty. You may proceed, sir."

Andre's smile was worthy of a Cheshire cat. "How old are you, Ms. Abbots?"

"Twenty, sir," Kayla replied.

"Do you have any educational background or theatre experience?"

Kayla grinned and answered truthfully, "I have been a university student in Canada for three years, sir, and I work part time at the theatre, opera, and ballet there as well."

"Canada? How extraordinary," Andre turned to Firmin delightedly. For Kayla, who had been expecting sexism in regards to her education, this was a happy twist. "What kind of work did you do there?"

"I studied fashion, art, design, and a few engineering courses, so I mostly helped our backstage, with the costumes, makeup, and scenery sets," Kayla shrugged modestly. Inwardly, she sighed. Samantha, the musical genius of the family, would have had no trouble whatsoever getting a job here.

"You're hired."

Wait, what? "I beg your pardon?" Kayla gaped.

Andre's look could only be described as smug. "It would be an honour to have you working for us backstage. You would be working with the set crew, and with the costumes as well if we can manage it." Firmin nodded his approval. "Of course, you would be required to reside her at the opera house," Andre added casually. "I hope your family would have no objections?"

Kayla nearly whooped at this unexpected twist of luck. "No, no objections, monsieur," she grinned. "My family's back in Canada, so I had nowhere else to go anyway." If, of course, she could ever tell her sister, Samantha would never believe that it had been so easy to scoop up a job at the Opera Populaire.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Thanks for reading, take a moment to review if you liked it or if you have any constructive criticism. Feel free to PM me if you have any questions!<strong>

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Webber, Leroux, and other such owners. I only own my original characters. **

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><p><span>3<span>

"If you would please accompany us down to the stage, Ms. Abbots," Firmin requested politely, holding out his arm. "After we observe a bit of the rehearsal, we shall find…"

"Madame Giry," Leverfe prompted.

"Of course, Madame Giry… and see about clothes and accommodations for you," Firmin concluded graciously.

Kayla nodded her head respectfully and took the manager's proffered arm, feeling significantly more appreciated that she had for years. In that fashion, the three men and Kayla continued the rest of the way to the stage. On their way, the foursome stopped near another entrance near the back of the building. Kayla was racking her brains and trying to figure out what on earth she was missing before she heard hoof beats and the clatter of wheels on the cobblestones. _Uh oh_, she thought.

A loud whinny flew in from the alley outside, and she heard the thump of someone leaping to the ground. Without further ado, a young man sprang through the door: a very young, very blonde Patrick Wilson. _Damn it_. Kayla bit her lip and took a deep breath to control herself. Having watched the movie more times than she could count thanks to Samantha's obsession, Kayla was no stranger to the appearance of Raoul de Chagny, but seeing him on screen was nothing compared to reality. He was much taller than Kayla, and richly dressed in a white cravat, vest, and long tan jacket. His blonde hair was only slightly shorter than hers, much to her surprise. But Kayla had no choice but to admit it; he was a looker.

"Monsieurs!" Raoul greeted strongly, reaching out to shake their hands. "I hope I'm not too late."

"Not at all," Firmin reassured, returning the handshake enthusiastically.

"Glad you could make it, Vicomte," Andre interjected.

Raoul's warm hazel eyes scanned the group in front of him before landing with a guarded curiosity on Kayla. "And who is this?" he asked charmingly. Kayla struggled to keep down the blush that she could feel rising in her tanned cheeks.

_Dear heaven, I'd tap that_, one part of her brain was smirking.

_He's taken_, another scolded.

_And may I ask why _the hell_ Christine gets to wheel two beautiful men at once?_ The reply snarkily emerged.

_We're not here to flirt with the characters._

_Of course not; it's just an added bonus. _

_Shut up. _

"Where are my manners? Vicomte, may I present mademoiselle Kayla Abbots, our newest crew member," Andre introduced proudly, puffing out his chest.

"It's an honour, Vicomte," Kayla said awkwardly, praying that she wasn't completely botching up period etiquette.

Raoul took Kayla's shaking hand in his gloved one and brought it to his lips. "The pleasure is all mine, mademoiselle," he replied graciously.

_But seriously, why not tap that? _

_Just shut up. _

"She is Canadian," Firmin added with the air of one revealing something exotic. Kayla snickered quietly. "She has studied theatre arts at their universities."

"Interesting," Raoul commented silkily, and his voice somehow made the bland word sound highly complementary.

"Shall we continue to the stage?" Leverfe interjected.

Nodding their agreement, the men followed the former manager, dragging Kayla along with them. Raoul fell behind as the managers and Kayla continued the rest of the way into the middle of the stage.

The cast and crew were in an uproar, and the rehearsal was in a fabulous state of disarray. When the conductor, Maestro Reyer, saw the managers coming, he visibly groaned and put his hand to his forehead. "Monsieur Leverfe, I am _rehearsing_!" he protested through gritted teeth.

"My apologies, Maestro Reyer, Madame Giry," Leverfe acknowledged, not sounding the least bit guilty. When he called for attention, the whole cast and crew stopped what they were doing to listen, and even Carlotta, who was freaking out about something or another, fell silent. "As you know, for some weeks there have been rumours of my imminent retirement," Leverfe began. "And I can now tell you that these are all true."

"Aha!" Carlotta smirked at Piangi, who rolled his eyes. Kayla could not help herself but be thankful for landing in a completely recognizable scene of the movie.

"I would like to introduce you all to my replacements, Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles Andre. You may have heard of their fortune, recently amassed in the junk business…" Leverfe continued.

"Scrap metal, actually," Andre corrected, winking at Kayla.

"And we would like to introduce the new patron of the opera, the Vicomte de Chagny!" Firmin announced.

The ballerinas trickled out of the left wings, and Kayla saw Christine mouth "It's Raoul!" before turning to look at the new patron making his grand entrance. All the female cast members were practically drooling.

"My parents and I are honoured to support all the arts, especially the world renowned Opera Populaire," Raoul responded smoothly. Kayla watched Christine's complexion become even rosier as her doe-brown eyes remained fixed on the Vicomte.

"May I present Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons," Leverfe sighed as the olive-skinned prima donna approached and curtsied. Carlotta's fan club applauded. Piangi huffed. "And Ubaldo Piangi, our leading baritone," Leverfe added hurriedly.

"It is an honour, signor," Raoul inclined his head in greeting. "I believe I am keeping you from your rehearsal; I shall be here this evening to share in your great triumph. My apologies, Monsieur."

"Thank you, Vicomte," Reyer murmured, looking distinctly relieved.

Raoul bowed and walked briskly off the stage, passing Christine and Meg on his way without a glance. Both dancers looked distinctly put out. "He wouldn't recognize me," Kayla saw Christine mutter.

"He didn't see you!" Meg silently protested.

"From the top then, ladies and gentlemen!" cried the conductor, ushering the managers off to the side of the stage. Kayla scurried after them as the ballerinas sashayed onto the stage. She was only half-listening as Madame Giry spoke to Firmin and Andre in her fabulous French accent, pointing out her daughter, Meg, and explaining Christine's tragic backstory. However, Kayla's attention was devoted to two things: Carlotta, whom, if Kayla's memory served her correctly, was going to have a freak out in about a minute; and the beam that would fall on the diva when the yelling began.

The little catalysts began to line up' Firmin and Andre's appreciative eyeing of the ballet corps, Carlotta's dress getting stepped on, and the grand dance finale, in which the twirling of the dancers conveniently blocked Carlotta from view. "The Vicomte is very excited for tonight's gala," Leverfe assured Firmin and Andre weakly. As Kayla had not-so-mysteriously foreseen, the prima donna snapped.

"Alora, alora, alora," the furious soprano greeted sarcastically as she stormed over. "I hope that the patron is as excited by dancing girls as your new managers, because I will not be singing! Bring me my doggy!" she shrilled, turning to leave.

Kayla felt slightly sorry for the new managers, but she had to admit that the accusations of creepy attention to the dancers were not completely unfounded.

"What do we do?" asked Firmin blankly.

"Grovel," said Leverfe promptly. "Grovel, grovel." And so the two managers did exactly that while Carlotta let out some obviously fake sobs.

"Isn't there a lovely aria for Elyssa in act three of Hannibal?" suggested Andre faux-casually. Reyer rolled his eyes.

"I do not have my costume for act three, because somebody not finish it!" Carlotta shrieked, her wild Italian accent becoming even more pronounced in her rage. "And I hate my hat!"

Kayla, being about the same height as Firmin, did not have to raise herself at all as she muttered into his ear. "I'll do it. I could finish that dress in ten minutes."

"That will most likely be necessary, mademoiselle," Firmin whispered back. Regrettably, this exchange did not pass unnoticed by Carlotta.

"Of course it is necessary!" the furious soprano shouted. "Who is zis ridiculous girl and what is she doing on my stage?"

"Your stage?" Kayla quipped sassily.

"This is Mademoiselle Kayla Abbots; she will be working with the costumes and scenery starting this evening," Firmin introduced.

Carlotta turned on him immediately. "Then she should be backstage instead of ruining my rehearsal!"

"How about you come over here and make me leave?" Kayla offered dangerously. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw some of the dancers, Meg and Christine included, giggle at her comment. This support made Kayla smile. "As a member of the crew, I have as much of a right to be here as you do," she challenged.

Carlotta's chocolate eyes narrowed.

"Signora, I was hoping you would honour us with a private rendition," Andre cut in.

Carlotta's face softened. "If my managers command," she agreed with a weak laugh.

"We do," Firmin muttered.

The red haired Italian bustled to the middle of the stage. "Maestro?"

"If my diva commands," Reyer accepted sarcastically, stepping up onto the conductor's podium.

"Yes, I do," Carlotta snapped. Fidgeting with her hair and incredibly wide dress, Carlotta positioned herself until she was assured everything was perfect. Shooing the rest of the cast out of her way, she took a deep breath and began to sing.

"_Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye_

_Remember me, once in a while_

_Please promise me yoooooooou'll try…" _

As Carlotta warbled along, Kayla kept her gaze fixed on the catwalk above the stage, waiting for the disturbance she knew was coming.

"_When you find, that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be…"_ Carlotta continued.

There! Kayla spotted a black cape whisk out of sight, and the beam began to fall. Lunging forward, Kayla bodily knocked Carlotta out of harm's way as the beam crashed onto the stage. As the diva and new stage assistant toppled to the floor, a second piece dropped to the ground directly between the two women. Carlotta and Kayla stared blankly at the object for a moment, their noses only inches from it. Quite frankly, Kayla was not at all surprised. The Phantom knew the Opera House so well and was such a criminal genius that he would most certainly have had a back-up plan. Carlotta moving must have been a surprise, though.

Despite the dangerously close encounter with a future spent in a wheelchair, Kayla felt slightly giddy. _The Phantom of the Opera just tried to kill me!_ her mind giggled.

Firmin and Andre raced forward to help her and Carlotta up. Carlotta started squealing before she was even on her feet.

"Buquet!" Leverfe barked. "For God's sakes man, what's going on up there?"

The infamous stage hand appeared mere seconds later.

"Don't look at me!" Joseph Buquet objected. "I didn't move it! God as my witness, I wasn't at my post!"

"I will make sure your salary is double this buffoon's if you perform better than he does," Andre muttered darkly to Kayla, who nodded vigorously. She could do better than Buquet, she was sure.

"Please monsieur, there's no one there!" While Buquet spoke, Kayla looked on as, unbeknownst to the others, Madame Giry walked into the wings and picked up the bone white envelope that floated gently to the floor. "And if there is," Buquet added evilly. "Well then, it must be a ghost."

"Or perhaps a drunken hallucination," Kayla interjected snidely. "Do us all a favour and cut back on the whiskey, Buquet." A group of young stage hands began killing themselves with laughter somewhere in the wings.

"These things do happen," Andre said weakly.

Carlotta was incensed. "For the past three years these things do 'appen!" She turned an accusatory finger on Leverfe. "And do you stop them from 'appening? NO!" she spat. "And you two!" she directed her wrathful gesture at the two new managers. "You are as bad as 'im! Until you stop dese things from 'appening, _dis thing_ doesn't not happen!"

With that, along with some angry Italian that sounded like curses, Carlotta stormed off the stage.

"Well, gentlemen," Leverfe started, clapping his hands together. "Good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Australia." With a bow, he turned and walked away.

"Australia?!" But Leverfe didn't answer, as he had already departed.

"I'm really leaving!" announced Carlotta's distant scream.

"Signora Giudicelli, she will come back, won't she?" Andre asked timidly. Reyer only gave an exasperated shrug.

Madame Giry approached Firmin and Andre from behind, the note held ever so gently in her delicate hands. "I don't think so, monsieurs," she answered Andre's query with a mischievous smile. "I have a message for you, monsieurs, from the Opera Ghost."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: So we have our first glimpses of Raoul, Carlotta, Christine, Meg, and Madame Giry! Thanks for reading, review or PM me if you have any questions, comments, or constructive criticism!<strong>

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and others. _Think of Me_ belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber. I am only responsible for Kayla and any other original characters. **

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><p><span>4<span>

Kayla had to hide her smile as Madame Giry made her proclamation. The fact that she could literally see the midnight black splotches of ink and sharp cursive of the Phantom's note was just enforcing her feeling of delight that she was even in the same building as the elusive ghost.

"God in heaven, you're all obsessed," Firmin sighed.

The ballet mistress shot him a warning glance before continuing. "He welcomes you to his opera house," she explained, ignoring Andre's quiet protest in terms of ownership. "And he requests that you continue to keep Box 5 empty for his use… and he reminds you that his salary is due."

"His salary?!" gaped Firmin incredulously.

Madame Giry gave a birdlike nod. "Monsieur Leverfe used to give him twenty thousand francs a month," she commented, flipping her long, thick, silvery blonde braid over her shoulder.

"Twenty thousand francs?!" blustered Andre.

"Perhaps you can afford more?" the woman smirked, twirling her elegant black and gold cane over the polished floor. "With the Vicomte as your patron?"

"Well, Madame, I had hoped to made that announcement public this evening, when the Vicomte was to join us for the gala," Firmin sneered. "But it appears that we shall have to cancel, as it seems we have lost our star!" He shredded the Phantom's letter into tiny pieces as he looked wildly at Andre.

"Surely there's an… an…" Andre stuttered.

"Understudy?" one of the male cast members suggested.

"Yes! An understudy!" Andre cried, latching onto the word like a baby with a new toy.

"Understudy?! There is no understudy for la Carlotta!" Reyer snapped with more venom than Kayla felt was necessary. Firmin and Andre were not opera experts, after all; it was not fair to take out the stress of the situation on the new managers.

"A full house, Andre! We shall have to refund a full house!" Firmin moaned.

"Christine Daäe could sing it, sir."

There was a moment of stunned silence as Kayla and Madame Giry stared at each other; the ballet mistress and the new stage hand had spoken completely in unison. Kayla blushed and gestured at Madame Giry. "Sorry, désolé!" she apologized, switching to French halfway through the statement. "S'il vous plaît, continuer." She had gone out on a limb with the French, since in this movieverse most people spoke with British accents. It did, however, pay off with Giry, and no one reacted to the language change. Maybe French and English were pretty much interchangeable in this universe?

Madame Giry smiled at the embarrassed girl kindly. "Merci."

Kayla grinned to herself. _Don't take French, they said_, her mind jeered. _You'll never use Parisian _and _Canadian French, they said_.

"A chorus girl?" Andre scoffed. "Don't be silly."

"She has been taking lessons with a great teacher," Madame Giry said proudly, prodding Christine forward.

"Whom?"

"I don't know his name, monsieur," Christine admitted quietly. Kayla watched the interaction in awestruck silence.

"Let her sing for you, monsieurs," Madame Giry coaxed. "I assure you, she has been well taught."

"Oh oui, elle l'a fait," Kayla muttered. Madame Giry looked at her sharply, but at Kayla's returned guilty grin, her façade softened. No one else heard the aside.

Firmin and Andre reluctantly convinced Christine towards the front of the stage. "From the beginning of the aria then, mademoiselle," Reyer indicated kindly, raising his baton. Christine threw a questioning glance at Madame Giry, who nodded encouragingly.

"This is doing nothing for my nerves," Firmin muttered crossly.

"But she is very pretty," Andre returned in a tone suggesting that this fact alone solved all their problems.

"_Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye_

_Remember me, once in a while_

_Please promise me you'll try…" _

Christine's melodious voice silenced everyone present. Kayla was amazed. Christine, or Emmy, as Kayla was referring to her in her mind, obviously had natural talent, but it was very clear that she had been subject to incredible coaching. If she hadn't already known about the Phantom, she would have been very inclined to believe the Angel of Music theory. So clear and sweet were Christine's notes that everyone stood still, waiting in respectful silence. As she flawlessly reached the finale, everyone present applauded. The managers immediately cast Christine as Elyssa, and there were no objections.

After this, the official rehearsal sort of fell apart, and groups of dancers and singers moved to separate sections of the stage to privately practice. Kayla, meanwhile, approached her new bosses. "My orders, sir?" she requested.

"Report to Madame Giry," Firmin decided finally, looking a little dazed. "She will see to your clothes and accommodations, and will be able to give you a more accurate picture of your duties this evening."

"Thank you, monsieurs," Kayla acknowledged, giving another awkward curtsey. Securing her bag over one shoulder, she slowly made her way over to the ballet mistress, who was directing the rest of the corps through another portion of the opera.

"Madame Giry?" Kayla began timidly. The older woman turned and looked at her expectantly. "I'm Kayla, the new stage hand? Monsieur Firmin said I should talk to you…"

"Mademoiselle Abbots, of course," Madame Giry stated crisply. "Please, come with me. Meg!" she barked at her daughter, who whipped around to face her mother. "Lead the others in the rest of the dances. I expect you all to have rehearsed up to act four by the time I return. Christine, my dear, you shall accompany me."

Christine Daäe hurried from Meg's side towards Kayla and Madame Giry. Kayla was nervous to say the least; as the movie had only displayed the magical transition from rehearsal to performance, she had no knowledge whatsoever about the events of the next few hours.

Madame Giry led the way off the stage through the wings, beckoning the two girls to follow. So they did, Kayla falling into step with Christine as if navigating opera houses with fictional characters was something she did on a regular basis. "Beautiful performance, Ms. Daäe," Kayla complimented, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

Christine beamed at her. "Thank you, Ms. Abbots," she replied graciously, flashing ivory white teeth. "But please, call me Christine."

"I will, if you call me Kayla," Kayla conceded. If Samantha could see her now, her sister would be so jealous. "So I guess you are the Prima Donna now," Kayla remarked. "Your teacher must be very proud."

"I hope so," Christine murmured, twisting a piece of glossy brown hair around a pale finger.

"Oh, darling, I know so," Kayla reassured, giving a knowing smile.

Christine's delicate features bore an expression of shock. "You know the Angel of Music?" she asked in a hushed whisper.

Kayla laughed. "You could say that, but I doubt he knows of me," she explained. "The only musical talent I have is the amount of time I spend listening to it." Glancing slyly at the beautiful brunette out of the corner of her deep blue eyes, Kayla added, "I bet the Vicomte will be very pleased with your performance tonight as well."

Christine blushed, her white cheeks turning rosy, and Kayla smirked. No matter how pissed Samantha had been over the whole Erik and Christine dynamic and the Raoul Christine pairing, Kayla had always shipped the later; in some small way so that Samantha could unconsciously ship herself with the Opera Ghost. "Do you really think so?" Christine asked shyly.

"He'll be heading down to congratulate you before you're even finished singing, mark my words," Kayla assured. "I don't blame you at all; he's a looker."

"A looker?" Christine repeated, her doe brown eyes wide with confusion.

"He's handsome," Kayla amended. "You know him?"

"We were friends, when we were small," Christine told her, smiling bashfully.

"It's meant to be!" Kayla exclaimed dramatically, and the young soprano laughed. Looking up, Kayla saw Madame Giry waiting patiently by the door of the Prima Donna suite. As she had not been paying attention to their route through the halls, Kayla had no idea how they had gotten there. Considering that she was going to be living her for the foreseeable future, Kayla vowed to pay more attention to the routes through the labyrinth of an Opera House. Unfortunately, there would be no glittery monarchs in this particular maze, part of her mind pointed out. Just a dark, sociopathic overlord.

Gesturing the two girls into the large, ornate room, Madame Giry shut the wooden door behind them. "Come and sit here, my dear," the ballet mistress directed Christine, who did as she was told and gingerly sat down in a fancy chair in front of the dressing table. "You can sew, yes?" Giry rounded on Kayla, who nodded. "As you no doubt already found out from the former diva, the dress for act three is not yet finished." She waved her hand at a mountain of sparkling, snow-white fabric.

"I can do it," Kayla agreed. "Do you have a mannequin?" Madame Giry pointed over to it.

Reverently gathering up the dress, Kayla carried it over to the full body mannequin in the corner of room, across from where Christine was nervously perched. A pincushion as full of pins as a hedgehog, a box of sewing needles, and a wide range of expensive looking thread sat on a small wooden table. Slipping the partially completed dress onto the mannequin, Kayla threaded a needle and got to work. Luckily enough for her, one of her fashion teachers had given them an open final in their second year in which all the students were required to individually choose a movie costume and almost perfectly replicate it, using their own patterns and materials. Kayla had chosen a dress from Phantom of the Opera; ironically enough, the same dress she was now working on. She had aced that final in school, and had not yet forgotten the exact system in which the Act Three dress was pieced together and embroidered. She had even accounted for the corset in that final for accuracy! Yet she never could have expected that she would be working on the same dress twice.

As she stitched, she was able to watch Madame Giry carefully curling each of Christine's dark locks. Kayla's indigo eyes wandered from the shiny round mirrors of the dressing table, over the walls of Carlotta portraits and posters, and to the gold framed, floor-to-ceiling mirror…

Kayla jumped in her seat, unintentionally stabbing herself with the needle. "Dammit," she hissed, examining the damage. Her fingertip was oozing a few drops of blood, but it was nothing too serious, so she wrapped the wound in a Kleenex from her bag and kept working, surreptitiously watching the mirror. From this angle, it looked normal, nothing like the reflective windows that Kayla was used to seeing in airports. Unlike those windows, however, Kayla could not see through the glass of the mirror. At this very moment, the Phantom could be watching and no one would know it. _Stop trying to freak yourself out_, Kayla scolded herself, and attempted to return her focus to her work. In her peripheral vision, she could see Madame Giry pinning beautiful diamond flowers onto Christine's voluminous curls.

After forty-five minutes, Madame Giry came over to inspect the costume. Kayla tied off the final stich and set the needle aside, rolling her neck and shoulders to eradicate the stiffness of sitting still for over half an hour. "Finished?" Madame Giry inquired, running a critical eye over the full skirt and low bodice.

"Yes," Kayla affirmed cheerfully, running through a careful inspection of her own. "The embroidery was practically finished, but I still had to finish it up and do touch-ups, and damn is it complicated, so I spent most of my time on that. The bodice and skirt were about half-done, so I did that too. It took me longer than I expected, but it should do the trick."

Nodding regally, Madame Giry turned to Christine. "You may wait here until I return, my dear," she instructed. "Rest, and warm up your voice if you require it; you have a long night ahead of you." Peering at Kayla, she continued, "You, Ms. Abbots, will come with me, and we will see to your accommodations and job this evening."

Kayla scooped up her bag and followed, waving goodbye to Christine as she headed out the door. She carefully memorized every turn, staircase, and doorway until they reached one of the dormitories. "This will be your bed," Madame Giry gestured as they entered the large room. "I've put you next to Meg, so you will be in good hands."

"This is the dancers' dorm, isn't it?" Kayla pondered. She received a wary glance in reply.

"Yes, it is, but we could not have you rooming with those rascally stage hands, now could we?" At the foot of Kayla's tidy new cot, there was a sturdy wooden box, which Madame Giry opened with a key. Handing the key to Kayla, she explained, "You may keep all of your belongings in this box. And I take it you will need some clothing for when you are not working," she added, frowning at Kayla's pants. "I will bring you some suitable outfits tomorrow, but for now we must be off."

Kayla got the message and stuck her purse in the box, taking her iPhone with her. As soon as she locked the chest and stuck the key and phone into her pocket, Madame Giry led the way out of the dormitory.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Translations<span>**

**Unlike Kayla, I know neither Canadian nor Parisian French, so I ruefully attribute all errors in translation to Google Translate.**

***désolé - sorry**

****S'il vous plaît, continuer – Please, continue.**

*****Oh oui, elle l'a fait – Oh yes, she has**

**Author's Note: We're getting quite close to Hannibal! Thank you to all those who favourited, followed, and reviewed. I hope this chapter lived up to all of your expectations. Chapter 5 should be posted fairly soon! **

**Thanks! **

**Tierney**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and other such people who are much more famous than me. I only own Kayla Abbots and any other original characters. **

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><p><span>5<span>

There were still crew members milling about backstage, but Madame Giry led her past all of them to a dark corner, blocked from view by a giant shelf of masks and props. "Before we go any further, I must ask you," the woman spoke in a voice festooned with ice. "Who are you and what do you know about this opera house?"

Kayla's mouth dropped open, and she imagined that her face resembled some sort of dim bottom-feeder.

"Well?" Madame Giry demanded.

Resigned to the fact that she was probably going to get fired, Kayla gritted her teeth and decided that the truth was the only viable option at this time. After all, she knew things that could potentially sway the ballet mistress. "I'm Kayla Abbots," she began. "I am a nineteen year old university student from Canada. I'm from the future, I suppose, and a different universe, per say, and I have no idea how I got here." Madame Giry looked skeptical, so Kayla decided to persevere. "All of this," Kayla continued, waving her hand around them, "This opera house, these events, are a legend where I come from."

"Do you really think me so naïve as to believe this?" Madame Giry hissed.

"No, but I think you are an intelligent and reasonable woman who cares very much about this Opera House and your family, and as Erik is included in both of those categories, let me assure you I am not here to hurt him or get in his way."

Madame Giry recoiled as if Kayla had slapped her in the face. "How much do you know about him?" she whispered weakly.

"I know that you saved him from a gypsy caravan, where he was showcased as the 'Devil's Child' or some such bullshittery," Kayla listed breezily. "I know that you brought him here, and that he now lives beneath the Opera. He has fashioned a rather marvelous identity as the Phantom of the Opera, which ensures that no one cusses with him. You're kind of his mother, because his actual mom was not really a mom at all. He is also a genius in every sense of the word, he loves Box Five for some reason, and he is giving Christine Daäe singing lessons under the guise of an Angel of Music." Kayla tilted her head and frowned into the distance as the ballet mistress stood in stunned silence. "And he also dresses with more class than any man I have ever seen. Oh, and he's really quite attractive even with his so called deformity." She paused again. "And he's writing his own opera, and he's got an organ in the basement. Am I missing anything?"

Obviously Madame Giry had not predicted the full extent of Kayla's knowledge. Taking a deep, shaky breath, the woman said, "Very well. Which side of his face is deformed?"

"What?"

"I believe you," Madame Giry admitted calmly. "There is no one in this world that would be privy to such knowledge. But just to be sure; which side of his face is hidden?"

Kayla was stumped for a moment. Racking her brain, she mentally reviewed the movie scenes in which Erik's face was clearly visible. "The right side," she guessed cautiously. "He wears a white porcelain half-mask on that side."

Nodding sharply, Madame Giry took Kayla's arm and pulled her to a walk. "Does anyone else know what you do?" she murmured. "Have you told anyone else?"

Kayla shook her head. "In my world, almost everyone does," she explained. "But here, no one knows besides us."

"Good. Do not speak of this to anyone," Madame Giry ordered. "And no one else is to know where you have come from. He will already know that you are here, but I will try my best to assure he does not know from where. It would not fare well for the Phantom to have a grudge against you so soon."

This did not sound at all promising, but Kayla refrained from mentioning that opinion. For all she knew, the Opera Ghost could have overheard their entire exchange, and might at this very moment be plotting her demise. It occurred to her that she was no longer at home on the couch with Samantha, crying over the tragic life of a very attractive antagonist, but that the man whom she had once grieved for was very real, very intelligent, and probably murderous. She could not afford to get this wrong.

Madame Giry quickly toured Kayla through the backstage, showing her the areas to find props, set pieces, extra rope, and anything else she may need for work. A small, secluded office, by the exit to the main dressing room hallways, was the next stop. "Officially, this office belongs to Joseph Buquet," Madame Giry told her, not even bothering to hide the condescension in her voice as she said the man's name. "But he is a drunk and a fool, and does not use this space as he should. As you seem to be the type of girl to take your occupation seriously, I believe I could transfer the ownership to you." Madame Giry walked away, seemingly to search for something, giving Kayla a chance to look around.

The room was about the size of her walk-in closet at home, just big enough for a small desk, a chair, and a lamp. Shelves jutted out from every available wall-space, which would make navigating the cramped room even more difficult, but as every shelf was covered with books, Kayla did not mind at all.

"You will not likely spend very much time in this room," Madame Giry declared, pulling a black book the size of a large photobook off of a shelf in the far corner. "But you will need access to this room for these." Placing the volume on the desk, she gently opened the long cover. Inside was a plethora of artwork – images of set pieces, sketches of costumes, and tidy descriptions of the acts and scenes that the images depicted. "This is the set book of _Hannibal_," Madame Giry described. "This book will tell you which sets need to be moved or changed, and the cues for doing so. Each opera we perform has its own set book – _Il Muto, Faust_…"

"_Don Juan_?" added Kayla slyly.

Madame Giry gave her a puzzled look. "I don't believe we have every performed an opera with such a name."

"_Don Juan Triumphant_; it's _his_," Kayla whispered conspiringly, tapping the side of her nose cheekily.

Madame Giry smiled at her. "Sometimes, I think you know too much for your own good, my dear girl. No, we do not have a book for _his_ masterpiece; it's still in progress as far as I am aware."

Kayla carefully reached out and turned another page, revealing the designs for Elyssa's solo in Act Three. The art was flawless, and Kayla resolved to learn how to draw just as beautifully as this. Madame Giry looked on with a satisfied smile on her lined face.

"Would I be able to take this with me to performances, just until I'm able to memorize all the cues and pieces?" asked Kayla pleadingly.

Madame Giry studied her face for a moment. "Stage hands are not allowed to even touch the set books," she stated finally. "But as you appear to be an artist yourself, I know you will treat this book with the respect it is due." Kayla grinned broadly at her, and ever so gently picked up the set book. Rummaging through a box in the corner of the room, Madame Giry re-emerged with what appeared to be a bundle of leather. "Your belt," was her only explanation as she and Kayla worked to untangle the strips.

It took about four knots for Kayla to make the belt small enough for her waist. There was a loop of rope attached, a bag of chalk for her hands when climbing, and a few simple tools for repairing set pieces. There was even a pouch large enough to contain the set book. Madame Giry stepped back and looked Kayla up and down. "Bien," she pronounced finally. "You look like a true member of the crew." After a moment, she added, "I do think we should find you a more practical shirt for work; white dirties easily, but it will have to do for now. Come, I will introduce you to the others."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: This chapter is slightly shorter, but there won't be too long of a wait until the next one is posted. Thank you to everyone who has favourited, followed, or reviewed. Please feel free to review or PM me with any questions, comments, or constructive criticism. <strong>

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: So I lied, I felt guilty for how short the last chapter was, so I decided to post the next one about five minutes later. Standard Disclaimer, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and respective parties own Phantom of the Opera. Kayla and the other original characters - whom you will meet soon - belong to me. **

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><p><span>6<span>

The other stage hands had already assembled by the time Madame Giry and Kayla found them. Most of them were young men, thin and wiry to the point of looking underfed, but with muscular arms. About seven of them looked over thirty-five, but everyone else looked under twenty, not including Joseph Buquet.

Joseph Buquet was the kind of man that made a person wish that they had a Taser accessible. Flabby, grubby, and perverse, Buquet was the last name in creep. Kayla knew for a fact that he had peepholes hidden throughout the backstage so that he could spy on the dancers. He had greasy grey hair, wild eyes, and thick, strong hands that were capable of breaking bones. And this was the man she would now be working with. Kayla swallowed nervously.

"Gentlemen," Madame Giry greeted in a tone that suggested that she was lying through her teeth with such a respectful title. "This is Mademoiselle Abbots; she will be working with you on the sets from now on."

The other crew members made no pretence of sizing her up, and Kayla fought to keep her expression completely neutral. She was no stranger to attempted intimidation. "What level?" one of the younger ones demanded.

"Catwalk," Kayla shot back without blinking an eye. She had worked on the highest, narrowest, and most dangerous section of the backstage ever since she had started working at the theatres in Calgary. A number of her new companions looked decently impressed.

"Well, that's a shame," another purred. "It would have been quite interesting to have you backstage, darling." A couple of others, Buquet included, laughed approvingly.

"You will address me by my surname only," Kayla requested icily. The blatantly obvious invitation offended her, and she was not going to take sexism from anyone in this opera house.

"All business, ma chérie?" the same teen wheedled. He stepped towards her, smirking. "A pretty girl like you, I bet you're not opposed to a bit of…"

He never got around to saying what he believed she was not opposed to. As he spoke, he reached out as if to touch her cheek. Before he could, Kayla snatched his wrist and in one, swift movement, flipped him onto his back. Holding his arm in a painful twist, she leaned over him, wisps of her blonde hair swinging into his face. "Let me make this perfectly clear," she snarled. "I may be a girl, but I am not here as a toy, and I am certainly not going to be sleeping around. I take my job seriously, and if you or anyone else tries that again, I will break every bone in your body. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Abbots," the boy choked, his eyes wide with fright.

Smiling darkly, Kayla released her hold and stepped away, brushing invisible dust off of her cuffs. Madame Giry looked shocked, but proud. "Good luck my dear," she told Kayla warmly, squeezing her shoulder. "I will be in the wings during the performance if you should need me. As for the rest of you," she turned to the twenty-one male stage hands. "This gala is very important for all of us, and it is imperative that tonight's performance runs smoothly. If I hear that any of you have been harassing Ms. Abbots instead of focusing on your work, you will have both myself and the managers to answer to." With that final warning, Madame Giry imperiously swept away.

As soon as Madame Giry disappeared, Kayla, propriety be damned, rolled up her sleeves, exposing her tanned forearms to the elbow. "So," she chirped, surveying the crowd of flabbergasted males. "Where do we start?"

For such a stressful beginning, Kayla assimilated quite well into her new peer group. Contrary to her predictions, they all were quite respectful to her. Even the smarmy guy, whom she had very violently put in his place, politely apologized for his behaviour, introduced himself as Jamie, and proceeded to defend her and her suggestions against any and all criticisms with the fierce devotion of a Rottweiler. The older men listened to her educated ideas and more often than not adopted them; the boys her age followed her every move with watchful, awestruck eyes; and a group of them leapt to obey her every command, vying for her attention in a courteous yet flirtatious way that Kayla found quite endearing. It would have been perfect save Buquet, who seemed rather annoyed with all the attention and respect that she was receiving, and fought against her from the start.

The stage was set up precisely according the set book well before the performers began trickling into the wings to prepare for the opera. From the other side of the red velvet curtains, Kayla could hear the orchestra trooping into the pit, and, if she listened hard enough, the very distant laughter of their audience. At this time, all of the stage hands scattered to their assigned positions – some in the wings, behind the biggest set pieces, and the balconies. Kayla, Buquet, Jamie, and another boy named Clemens were in charge of the balconies, with Kayla and Buquet working the highest catwalk, looking after the ropes and hanging pieces. Between acts, they would all report to the wings to help move the largest backgrounds.

Kayla found the job too intense to worry too extensively about Buquet and his stupidity, or Christine's rapidly approaching solo, or the fact that Raoul was seated in box five. However, she was acclimatized enough to backstage work that she was able to keep a running commentary running in her head. "This just got personal," she thought sourly as she glimpsed the Vicomte lounging in the Phantom's box. She imagined the Phantom's reaction when he realized that he had been denied his precious box so that his pupil's childhood sweetheart could use it.

As the cues began to line up and become more frequent, she was unable to dwell on the calamity that would eventually repay the trespass. Jamie very helpfully hissed instructions at her from his position on the balcony below, directed her to the pieces that needed to move.

Everything was going absolutely splendidly until Act Three. While Christine confidently took to the stage for Elyssa's solo, there was a decidedly less graceful encounter occurring on the catwalk.

"I don't care what the damn set book says; nothing has to move for this act!" Buquet argued angrily.

The man and the girl were standing across from each other on the dangling wooden planks of the catwalk, both glaring at the other. As Christine had walked into position, Kayla had casually mentioned that there was only one moving piece in the act. Buquet had very vulgarly disagreed, and here they now were, in a standoff.

"The whole purpose of the set book is to follow it!" Kayla countered, brandishing said item in her opponent's face. "I am supposed to pull down the cloud to cover the moon at the final _'you will think'_, and lift it back up as the song ends!"

"Nothing moves!" the furious stage hand repeated.

Kayla rolled her eyes. Jamie and Clemens were both in the wings, covering for the two workers who were helping the young child actors control the horses that the scene called for. Out of sight and out of earshot, so she was forced to deal with the issue on her own. "The cloud needs to be moved! You don't even have to do a damn thing; you can just sit on your ass for all I care!" she snapped, turning away.

"I'm in charge here!" Buquet growled.

Whipping back to face him, Kayla seethed, "You aren't in charge; your whiskey bottle is in charge, and I am really quite astounded that they haven't fired you yet." Ironically enough, Buquet took a swig out of the aforementioned flask.

Tilting her head to listen, Kayla heard Christine's melodious voice starting to sing the verse preceding the cloud cue. As she walked away from Buquet towards the rope control, Kayla's anger got the best of her and she called softly over her shoulder, "In addition, it's nice to know that you are the type of man who feels threatened by a nineteen year old girl."

WHAM!

Buquet, not missing the not-so-subtle insult in Kayla's word, charged her, knocking her down onto the hard wood of the walkway. Kayla's head slammed into the boards, and she vaguely wondered whether or not a full scale beating was much better that being womanized. Struggling to sit up, Kayla shrieked, "You twisted, fat, idiotic son of a…" The words that followed quickly morphed into a string of profanity, and within seconds, the catwalk was playing host to a full-scale brawl. On stage, the soprano sang on, blissfully unaware of the war occurring just above her. The orchestra's instruments drowned out the muffled thumps and wrathful taunts trickling from the walkway above. The only clue to the battle was a slight shaking of the hanging pieces.

* * *

><p>Underneath the orchestra pit, in the tunnels of the opera house, the Phantom himself stood silently, rapt by the intoxicating spell that his beautiful student's voice wove in the theatre above. Christine's voice was flawless, as always, but there was something not quite right…<p>

Cocking his head to one side, the Phantom listened closely. Soon he was rewarded by almost indistinguishable bangs, as if someone was fighting on the top levels… Snapping to attention, the Phantom immediately pinpointed Buquet as a source of the chaos. How a man could be so unprofessional was completely beyond his intellect. And there was also the matter of the young new trainee…

Walking quickly, the Phantom of the Opera vanished down a dark corridor, leaving nothing but shadows behind.

* * *

><p>Back on the catwalk, the battle raged on. Kayla managed to wriggle out of Buquet's choke hold long enough to yank on the rope that released the cloud. It was a couple seconds later than had been required, but at least she had gotten it down, Kayla reflected, relishing her small victory. "Take that, you moronic douchebag!" Kayla hissed, thinking that perhaps douchebag was not a prevalent insult in 1870. She could not consider that for long, since Buquet tackled her again almost instantaneously.<p>

As Christine's voice rose and fell in a stunning range of octaves, Kayla fought wildly against Buquet, leaving deep red claw marks in his meaty forearms. As the song reached the highest note, Kayla broke free and sprang forward. In one quick motion, she pulled down hard on the rope of the cloud, and knotted it back to its anchor position. The cloud rose off the moon, the aria ended, and the audience applauded thunderously.

Kayla drew herself up to her full five-foot-ten-inch height and spun to face Buquet. "You were saying?" she mocked in a syrupy voice.

"You bitch," Buquet snarled. His thick hand shot out and slapped her hard across the face. Such was the force behind the blow that Kayla stumbled backward and off the walkway. She managed to grab hold of one of the ropes and there she hung, blinking dazedly at Buquet's fleeing form. Desperately she tried to get a better grip on the rope, but she was so dizzy from the multiple hits she had received on the head that she only succeeded in reducing her hold to one hand. The knowledge that she was about to die flickered hazily through her brain. And this was not Inception, where she would wake up in reality. _Gotta get up_, her subconscious shrieked, but her arms would not respond. _Sorry Samantha_, she thought fleetingly.

Her hand slid completely off the bar.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Thanks for reading, please review or PM me if you have any questions, comments, or constructive critiques! <strong>

**Thanks! **

**Tierney**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Webber, Leroux, and other respective parties. I only own Kayla and my original characters. **

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><p><span>7<span>

The Phantom crept softly across the balcony, staring in shock at the scene playing out before his eyes. Buquet had the new stage hand in a choke hold, and the girl's face was red from the effort she was exerting to escape. As he watched, the girl slipped out from under Buquet's arms and sharply tugged on the rope that released the cloud. "Take that, you moronic douche bag!" the girl crowed. Though she sounded quite pleased, her entire body was quivering with rage. Buquet grabbed her again. On the stage below, Christine began her octave climb.

The young woman was thrashing about like a wild animal. Her deep blue eyes blazed with fury, and her dark blonde locks were escaping from the tie she was using to hold it back. Her delicate-looking hands left painful looking scratches on Buquet's skin. Just as Christine's voice soared to the final high note, the girl tore away and pulled the rope back to its original position and quickly knotted it, skillful as if she had been working in a theatre her entire life. "You were saying?" the girl asked sarcastically.

Buquet's body tensed and his words carried to where the Phantom silently stood. "You bitch," the stage hand growled as he struck her across the face.

The girl stumbled back as Buquet's hand made contact. She flailed for balance on the edge of the catwalk, slipped, and fell. Catching herself on one of the ropes, the girl clung on desperately as Buquet bolted off the catwalk, unwilling to stick around and take responsibility for the murder, like the coward he was. And the death of the girl would once again be attributed to the Opera Ghost. In a split second, the Phantom decided that he would not allow this girl's blood to stain his hands. As soon as Buquet was out of sight, the dark shadow sprang down onto the catwalk.

One of the girl's hands slipped off, and she weakly reached up for the rope, but to no avail. Her glowing eyes flickered shut, and the final fingers slipped off.

He caught her by her shoulders before she dropped more than a couple of inches. She was tall, taller than Christine but still shorter than he was, and quite light and slender, so it took the Phantom almost no effort at all to lift her back up onto the catwalk. Lowering the girl down, the Phantom examined her face with the air of a man who had never seen a woman up close before. Tendrils of blonde hair were scattered over her forehead and across her cheeks. Her right cheek was emblazoned with the bright red print of Buquet's hand. He brushed a few silky locks behind her ear, cautiously, as if she were an animal that would bite if he moved too fast. When the applause of the audience doubled as the music for the next scene began, the girl stirred.

"Merde," she moaned, and the Phantom stifled a chuckle. Releasing her shoulders, the Phantom crouched down a short distance away. Blinking her long lashes and squinting, the girl struggled up, propping herself up on her elbows. Her confused blue eyes focused on him, and she emitted a small squeak of surprise.

The Phantom stood and retreated into the shadows, hoping that she had not seen his face. The girl continued to look in his direction, and the Phantom had the strangest feeling that she could see him through the gloom. "Merci, Monsieur Fantôme," she squeaked.

The Phantom of the Opera did not reply to her thanks, but leapt back to the balcony and disappeared into the darkness, a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: A shorter chapter today, but the next one should be up soon, and we will be back to Kayla's point of view. Thank you to all those who have followed and favourtied, and thanks to the guest reviewers, Miss Mo and E-man-dy-S for their reviews, and apologies for the cliff-hanger of the previous chapter. Now, you all know the drill: please review or PM with any questions, comments, or critiques! Thank you to all the readers for the support!<strong>

**Thanks! **

**Tierney **


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Webber, Leroux, and respective parties. I own Kayla and my original characters. **

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><p><span>8<span>

As soon as Kayla saw the dark shape whisk away into the inky blackness of the higher balconies, she collapsed back down onto the wooden slats of the catwalk. Her face was throbbing from the bitchslap she had received, and she could feel her cheek starting to swell. Despite all this, she started to grin; the Phantom of the Opera had just saved her life. Though, upon further reflection, it may have just been to thwart Buquet. But then again, she was a girl, so perhaps the ghost's sense of chivalry had prevailed.

The music from the pit continued, and, checking the set book, Kayla realized that there were still a number of scenes to go. She very gingerly struggled to her feet, holding onto the coarse ropes for support. Her head spun and she swore quietly. She had not moved very far before Jamie popped up from the tightrope-esque ladder stretched across to the balconies.

"Where on earth is Buquet? The sets need to be moved for scene 4… sacre bleu, Abbots, are you alright?" he gasped as Kayla swayed and nearly fell over for the fifth time that evening.

The chestnut-haired boy swooped in and held her up. "What happened?" he demanded, gazing with wild eyes at the swiftly purpling bruise on Kayla's pale face.

"Buquet," Kayla choked out, clutching Jamie's elbow as another wave of dizziness overtook her. "But don't worry about me," she protested. "We've got an opera to finish."

Jamie's brown eyes flashed with barely supressed rage. "Clemens!" he called, leaning over the ropes of the catwalk.

"Don't tell them!" Kayla begged, clinging to the ropes herself as she tried to stand on her own.

Jamie gave her a searching look. "Very well," he consented finally. "If you at least tell me what happened. Clemens!" he barked again as the stage hand appeared on the opposite balcony. "Buquet's gone, and I'd bet my salary he's absolutely rat-arsed, so tell Henri that I'm helping Abbots up here. You'll have to find someone else to help you on the balconies. Got it?"

The red haired boy waved in confirmation and scuttled away. Jamie turned to Kayla and smiled knowingly. "I guess it's just you and me now, sweetheart," he teased, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

"Don't even think about it," Kayla responded weakly, lightly punching his shoulder. "Try anything and you'll end up on stage singing soprano with Christine and Carlotta." Jamie snorted, and the two of them got to work.

Between cues, Jamie forced her to explain the fight, and Kayla did so, leaving out the part about almost falling to her death and being rescued by a myth. When her story was over, Jamie shook his head in disgust. "Buquet's foul," he muttered darkly as he and Kayla tied down ropes. "I don't understand why they haven't gotten rid of him yet." Peering at the stage far below them, he added, "But I suppose if we're lucky, le fantôme will take care of him for us!"

Kayla did not bother to hide her smile at the accuracy of her new friend's prediction. Wincing, she held her temple as a headache pounded her skull.

Jamie looked at her worriedly. "It won't be long now," he encouraged.

He was right, of course. It did not feel like very long at all until the grand finale and curtain call. The applause was so loud that even the catwalk swung slightly from the vibrations. When Christine took a bow, the entire theatre was on its feet.

As soon as the red curtains cascaded back down across the stage, the crew began to tidy and put away the set pieces. Jamie helped Kayla down from the catwalk and let her borrow his scarf to cover her green and purple face. "We've got Il Muto tomorrow," he explained while he and Kayla carried a large wooden forest set to the storage area. "But no rehearsal since we've performed it so many times, for the cast, at least. We'll have to set up the stage of course, but it shouldn't be that difficult."

Kayla, of course, already knew that Il Muto would be the next performance, but she did not comment. Inside her mind, however, she silently cheered that by tomorrow night, she would have no more problems from Joseph Buquet.

Backstage was cramped and loud as the cast and crew celebrated a successful gala. Certain members of the ballet corps were passing around green glass bottles, filled with some kind of liquor. Jamie took a swig of the proffered flask before offering it to Kayla, who bestowed on him a look of such scathing disapproval that the boy immediately handed the bottle back to its owner and did not touch the booze again for the rest of the night.

After the sets had been carefully returned to their homes backstage, and Kayla had returned the set book to the stage office, Jamie dragged Kayla over to Madame Giry. When the older woman tersely asked the problem, Jamie pulled the scarf off Kayla, despite the girl's efforts to keep her face covered.

As soon as Madame Giry saw the extent of the damage, she pulled Kayla closer towards her and led her out of the wings. "See you in the morning, Abbots!" Jamie called. Kayla waved shortly, distracted by the fact that she had just seen Meg sneaking down into the chapelle.

Kayla followed Madame Giry past groups of revellers into a small office decorated with posters of past performances and pictures of the ballet corps. Shutting the door, Madame Giry gestured Kayla to a wooden chair. "What happened?" she asked gently.

So Kayla explained: from Buquet's argumentative behaviour, to the disagreement over the cloud and the brawl that followed, the near brush with death, and being saved in the nick of time by the Opera Ghost.

"That man does not deserve to even stand outside this opera house," Madame Giry spat, her French accent thick with anger. There was a knock on the door, and when Madame Giry opened it, there was Jamie, who was holding a jar of ice wrapped in a cloth. "Excellent thinking, Monsieur Blanchard," Madame Giry praised. The stage hand blushed, mumbled a goodbye, and fled. Madame Giry shook her head, chuckling, as she handed the jar to Kayla. The cold glass soothed Kayla's throbbing cheek as Madame Giry took a seat on the other side of the desk.

"Is it safe to talk about this in here?" Kayla questioned softly. "Couldn't _he_ be listening?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "No. He has known me for far too long and respects me far too much to spy on me," she scoffed. In retrospect, Kayla reflected, this should have been obvious. "He does not appear to bear any will towards you, or he would have allowed Buquet to kill you," the ballet mistress stated bluntly. "But since he made the effort to save you, we must assume that he may be keeping an eye on you from now on."

Kayla moved the jar on her cheek as she pondered this. "I would have thought that he would be too interested in Christine to remember me for long."

Glancing at Kayla thoughtfully, Madame Giry agreed. "You are correct; he is coaching Ms. Daäe very diligently, but of course she must not know this."

"She'll find out by tomorrow morning, if not sooner," Kayla countered tiredly. "He's going to introduce himself tonight, as it were."

Madame Giry rose and strode to the door. "I must see that Ms. Daäe is not harassed by anyone backstage," she mentioned as she turned the knob.

"And to give her the Angel's token?" Kayla added.

"Yes, that also," Madame Giry smiled, pulling the rose out from its hiding place in the folds of her black dress. "Will you be able to find your way back to the dormitory on your own?" When Kayla nodded, the older woman looked satisfied. With a kind, "Goodnight, ma chérie", the ballet mistress left the office.

Kayla sat quietly on the chair for a moment longer, savoring the peace and quiet. Taking the jar of melting ice with her, she limped out of the office, feeling exhausted. She slowly navigated the twisting hallways up to the dorms. The party was still in full swing; many dancers were still consuming more alcohol than would be deemed wise, and as a result were loud, rambunctious, shrill, and utterly drunk. Kayla squeezed her way to her cot, grabbed her bag out of her trunk, and hastily retreated.

Backstage was still crowded as well; coming back downstairs from the dorm was similar to moving through a mosh pit at a rock concert. "Mademoiselle Abbots!" a voice bellowed in her ear as she was yanked out of her original path of travel. Before she fully processed what had happened, her hand was being wrung by Firmin, who was screaming his congratulations in a vain attempt to be heard over the ruckus.

Forcefully spun in the other direction, Kayla was met with the beaming face of Andre, whose expression morphed into one of horror as he saw the bruise. "Dear God, what happened to your face?" he said in an aghast tone.

Kayla shrugged. "Fell," she lied dully.

Andre looked highly skeptical, while Firmin on the other hand missed the entire interaction. "Vicomte! Vicomte!" Firmin shouted, dragging Andre towards the young nobleman. Andre in turn dragged along Kayla.

The young man turned towards them, smiling. In the dim light, his hair now looked auburn, and it occurred to Kayla that Raoul's hair colour could very well end up being an enigma she would be unable to solve. "A splendid performance, monsieurs," Raoul complimented, flashing teeth so blindingly white that Kayla had to resist the urge to shield her eyes.

"It went off without a hitch, if I do say so myself," Firmin boasted.

"And the set arrangements were incredible," Andre interrupted, patting Kayla on the back.

"The cloud was a bit late…" Kayla apologized. "But everything else went fairly well, I think."

"Incredible," Andre repeated, ignoring her protests.

Raoul's warm hazel eyes met Kayla's cerulean ones with a look of carefully disguised curiosity as his gaze flickered over her injuries. "I look forward to seeing more of your work soon, mademoiselle," he assured her with a charming smile. "But for now, I have a prima donna to congratulate."

"Yes, we appear to have made quite the discovery with Ms. Daäe," Andre agreed gleefully.

"Perhaps we could present her to you, Vicomte," Firmin suggested.

Kayla and Raoul shook their heads in complete synchronization. "Thank you gentlemen, but this is one visit I should prefer to make unaccompanied," Raoul refused politely, not noticing Kayla's mimicry. What he did notice was the large bouquet of flowers in Andre's hands, which the young Vicomte confiscated as he headed to Christine's dressing room.

"They appear to have met before," Firmin shrugged carelessly as he flitted off and began to socialize with the rest of the cast. Andre turned to Kayla with a look of regret. "My apologies; those flowers were for you," he admitted.

Kayla grinned. "The fact that you even went to the trouble to get me flowers is a gift enough," she assured kindly.

Andre's eyes moved to her cheek again. "No one gets a bruise like that from a simple fall," he said. "And certainly not in the shape of a hand."

"Could we discuss this tomorrow, monsieur?" Kayla begged. "I'm exhausted, and I want to get an early start on work tomorrow."

"Of course, mademoiselle," Andre acquiesced warmly, patting her on the shoulder. "Your work tonight was excellent; you deserve your rest."

"Merci," Kayla acknowledged gratefully, dropping a quick half-curtsey before diving back into the crowd. She re-emerged by the flight of stairs that led up to the prima donna room. Continuing upward, she eventually came to the hall of doors. Pausing outside box five, she evaluated her options. She could go back to the dorm right now, and have to deal with the intoxicated ballerinas for the remainder of the evening, or she could hang out in the last place anyone would venture, with the risk of being punjabbed by a pissed off Phantom.

"But he's going to be wooing Christine tonight," she muttered to herself. He would most likely have his attention on his pupil rather than his precious box. Her mind made up, she cautiously turned the knob.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: So, I felt bad leaving it with such a short chapter, so here is the next a week earlier than I planned! You all know the drill; review or PM with questions, comments, or critiques, and follow and favourite only if you want to, no pressure. <strong>

**Thanks! **

**Tierney **


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: I still do not own Phantom of the Opera, and only take credit for my original characters.**

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><p><span>9<span>

She had half expected it to be locked, but the door swung open without protest. Creeping reverently into the box, Kayla shut the door behind her and sat down, keeping out of sight of the stage. She set her bag onto the seat next to her and began to go through it. One by one, she took an inventory of the only possessions she had in this world. Her wallet, with her licence, credit cards, and Canadian and British currency, all of which were useless here; her agenda, timetable, and university transcripts, also useless; a small bag of cosmetics, including her personal set of costume makeup brushes; her sketchbook, drawing pencils, and a small watercolour set with brushes; and her iPhone and hot pink ear buds.

Hoping against hope, Kayla unlocked her phone and dialed her parent's home number. It did not even ring, and "no signal" flashed yellow across the screen. Kayla exited the phone app, disappointment churning in her stomach as it occurred to her that she might never get home. Her music, however, still worked, so Kayla popped in her ear buds and scrolled through the albums until she found the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack. She chose Think of Me, as she hadn't had a chance to listen during the performance of Hannibal.

As Emmy Rossum's voice filled her ears, Kayla returned her belongings to her purse. Using a small compact-mirror, she began to dab concealer onto her cheek, wincing at the pressure she was forced to apply to her bruises. She continued to apply the makeup until she was certain that the purple splotches were no longer visible. When that task was finished, she tucked the cosmetics back into her purse and exchanged them for her sketchbook.

Flipping through the creamy pages calmed her, making her feel like she was at home, working on her art. Pasted on the first couple of pages were photos – the Opera and Theatre Calgary backstage crews, her family at one of Samantha's band concerts, Kayla and Samantha at the Royal Albert Hall for the stage production of the Phantom of the Opera… Kayla smiled at the memories.

Then there was the actual artwork. Figure drawings galore, courtesy of her university courses, the rough drafts of her Advanced Placement concentration work from high school along with photos of the finished products, sketches of the stage and sets of the Opera Calgary, and a number of different portraits. A few more turns of the pages revealed her more recent project – illustrations of the Opera Populaire.

The first of the series was a watercolour of a rose, tinted ruby red, with a shiny black ribbon and ornate engagement ring adorning the stem. The next was a pencil drawing of Christine in the dress from Act Three, followed by Carlotta in her over the top Hannibal costume. A watercolour of Christine and Raoul trailed behind, along with a careful, full-page sketch of Erik smiling at his model of Il Muto. Quick charcoal and ink drawings of Firmin, Andre, Madame Giry, and the ballet filled the pages after. Kayla flipped through many more drawings until she reached her two most recent: a group shot of Gerard Butler, Emmy Rossum, and Patrick Wilson in their costumes, standing with Andrew Lloyd Webber in the lair set, and a painstakingly detailed colour pencil drawing of Erik without his mask, his perfect mouth turned up in an amused sort of grin. Kayla traced the outline of the Phantom's cheek with a light finger, smiling at the happy feeling the image gave her. Turning at last to a blank page, Kayla pulled a pencil out of her bag and began to sketch her view of the stage. She blocked out her surroundings completely as she drew, her world consisting solely of the distant stage, the book in her lap, and the soundtrack playing softly in her ears.

She was finished her sketch and wishing for water so she could paint when the light of the chandelier suddenly went out. Taking this as her cue to leave, Kayla gathered her things to her chest and rose, hurrying out of box five as the lights on the stages mysteriously blew out.

"The Mirror" 's quiet introduction trickled gently into her ears as she raced down the hallway and bounded down the stairs the led past the stage and dressing rooms. Once down there, she would be able to cross the stage and get to the stairs that led to the dormitories.

"_Insolent boy, this slave of fashion_

_Basking in your glory! _

_Ignorant fool! This brave young suitor_

_Sharing in my triumph!"_

Gerard Butler's deep baritone flowed intoxicatingly through her mind, the music echoing in her ears.

"_Angel, I hear you; speak, I listen_

_Stay by my side, guide me!_

_Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me_

_Enter at last, Master!"_

One of the ear buds fell out of Kayla's ears, yet the music remained perfectly clear. Goodness gracious, that's loud, Kayla thought, turning on her iPhone to adjust the volume. But the volume was exactly where she had left it – on one of the lower settings. Hold on, thought Kayla, her eyes widening. Hold on. Taking a quick glance around her, she realized that she was right outside the prima donna room. With a feeling of euphoria bubbling up in her chest, she slipped both buds out of her ears.

"_Flattering child, you shall know me;_

_See why in shadow I hide!_

_Look at your face in the mirror; _

_I am there inside!" _

Kayla clapped her hand over her mouth to hold back a squeal of delight and bent over to press her ear to the keyhole of the door. She had not been sure whether her experience in this world would be a musical, but apparently the Phantom's obsession with dramatic operatic entrances still stood. Holding her breath, she listened to Christine's feet padding over the soft carpet.

"_Angel of Music, guide and guardian,_

_Grant me to your glory!_

_Angel of Music, hide no longer_

_Come to me, strange angel!"_

The Phantom's deep voice softened, coaxing in a tranquil yet hypnotic tone.

"_I am your Angel of Music! _

_Come to me, Angel of Music!"_

Kayla heard the abrupt sound of boots striding confidently down the hall. Stifling a shriek, she fled, leaping backwards down the stairs and hiding in a small alcove on the stage. Peering cautiously around the corner, she saw Raoul rattling the door handle of the prima donna room, looking quite infuriated. "Whose is that voice?" he muttered, and then shouted, "Who's in there?"

Kayla's mind filled in the words that she could no longer hear.

"_I am your Angel of Music, come to me, Angel of Music!"_

In her mind's eye, she could see Christine stepping through the mirror, with the Phantom waiting with an outstretched hand.

Poor Raoul, whom, unlike Kayla, had no idea whatsoever the events unfolding in the dressing room, kept shouting for Christine and shaking at the door handle. He paused for a moment to listen, but, apparently hearing nothing, swore loudly in French. With another expletive, the Vicomte turned on his heel and stalked back the way he had come, probably to search for the keys. Meanwhile, Kayla took a deep breath to calm her racing heart and stole back to the dorms.

The debauchery was far from over when Kayla opened the dormitory door. All the dancers were still awake, with the exception of Meg, who was absent. Gritting her teeth with annoyance, Kayla shoved her way through the shrieking mass of bodies and opened her trunk. Inside were some new clothes: a plain, navy blue, buttoned-up and collared work shirt, an elegant looking grey blouse, a long and puffy black skirt, and a white long sleeve nightgown. To her dismay, there was also a corset. Reaching into her bag to retrieve her phone, she caught fabric beneath her fingers; a black sports bra and a warm black cardigan. Kayla was certain those two items had not been there before, but she recognized them as hers. As she had already achieved the impossible by getting herself stuck in a movieverse, she decided not to question this stroke of luck.

Yanking the nightgown over her head and over her body like a tent, Kayla proceeded to shimmy out of her clothes, a fairly advanced feat that she had developed to avoid the usual awkwardness that accompanied changing in public. She exchanged her bra for the magical sports bra, pulled on the cardigan, and folded the garments she had removed neatly and returned them to her trunk, which she locked once more.

Many of the girls around her were also in their nightgowns, with the exception of a couple who were so heavily made up and flashily dressed that they would not have been out of place in an old fashioned "gentleman's club". Kayla rolled her eyes and clambered into bed, returning the headphones to her ears and holding her phone tightly in her hands. Screwing her eyes shut, she silently bemoaned the brightness of the gas lights that illuminated the dormitory. She attempted to drown out the chatter with her music, but the shrieks continued to creep in. Resolved to the sleepless night ahead, Kayla flipped to the Music of the Night and tried to lose herself in the intoxicating melody that Christine would likely be experiencing quite soon.

Kayla had completed the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack and had been listening to the Lord of the Rings for approximately forty-five minutes when she registered that another voice had jointed the high-pitched squeals of the ballerinas.

"I know everything about the Opera Ghost," the voice was boasting to the oohs and ahs of the dancers. "I've seen him with my own eyes."

Kayla's blue eyes snapped open and her mind was overrun with a questionable string of four letter words.

_Buquet. Buquet's in the dorm_, her mind gibbered senselessly. What the hell was Buquet doing in the dorm? _Find Giry_, logic commanded. _Find Giry_. Kayla rolled out from under the quilt and dropped to the floor. She shoved her phone into her bra for safekeeping, and began to crawl between the rows of beds.

"Giudicelli may believe that it's been three years of mishaps," Buquet was saying. "But this place has been haunted for years and years longer than that. He's got the managers wrapped around his finger, he does – has for ages. But he can't scare me."

Kayla stifled a snort. Buquet's childish words would be proven invalid by this time tomorrow. She kept scootching around the cots, praying that Buquet would not see her and attempt to finish what he had started earlier that evening. But no one spared Kayla a glance, all too enraptured by Buquet's speech to notice.

At last, Kayla reached the door. Scrambling to her feet, she opened it and slipped out. Once in the hallway, she bolted. Her bare feet made not a sound on the carpeted floor as she raced towards the place where Kayla was pretty sure she would find the ballet mistress. And sure enough, as she bounded up the preceding set of stairs, there was Madame Giry, pulling Meg by her ear out of the prima donna room. The older woman looked surprised at seeing Kayla's rapid approach. "Kayla, what on earth is the matter?"

Kayla skidded to a stopped in front of the mother and daughter. "Buquet's in the dorm," she panted. "And I seem to be the only one who has a problem with it."

Madame Giry's eyes narrowed. Lips pursed grimly, she strode towards the dorms, with Meg and Kayla following close behind. "I don't believe I introduced myself," Kayla ventured in a whisper. "I'm Kayla."

The golden haired dancer flashed a warm smile. "I'm Meg," she responded cheerily. "I'm looking forward to getting to know you."

"Likewise," Kayla grinned. She was now on first name basis with two of the main protagonists; life was good.

By this time, they had reached the dormitory again. Madame Giry pushed the door open firmly, and allowed Meg and Kayla to slide into the room past her. The two girls carefully maneuvered their way to their beds, though no one else in the room noticed their appearance.

"A yellow parchment is his skin," Buquet described, a malicious spark lighting up his wild eyes. "A great black hole serves as the nose that never grew. You must be always on your guard," he warned, pointing his finger out over his audience. "Or he will catch you, with his magical lasso." Removing a length of rope from around his waist, he looped a coil around in a dancer in a lacy black and blue dress and pulled her towards him. The girl in question let out a pleased yelp as Buquet pretended to snap at her neck. It was then that Madame Giry decided to step in, yanking the girl away from the stage hand and directing the disappointed girl back to bed.

"Those who speak of what they know," she began angrily, her voice carrying to every corner of the room. Much to Kayla's delight, Madame Giry was singing. "Learn too late that prudent silence is wise." Stalking over to Buquet, Madame Giry stared him down. "Joseph Buquet, hold your tongue!" In one sharp movement, she smacked Buquet cleanly across the face. The stage hand had the decency to look shocked. "Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!" she hissed, tightening the noose around his neck. Unfortunately for Kayla, Buquet managed to grab the rope and prevent himself from being strangled.

_Soon_, Kayla thought with a dark smirk as she climbed back into bed, watching in satisfaction as Madame Giry forced Buquet from the room.

"To sleep now," Madame Giry barked. The girls closest to the edge of the room began to blow out the candles that lined the walls. "I expect everyone to be well prepared for a rehearsal tomorrow, and I will be accepting no excuses." Without another word, Madame Giry left, shutting the door firmly behind her. The other dancers immediately burst into chatter, but Kayla returned her ear buds to her ears and shut her eyes, drifting off to sleep as she was serenaded by the lilting compositions of Howard Shore.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Really I should be getting ready for Thanksgiving dinner and for all the relatives who shall descend upon my house this evening, but instead I have closeted myself away in my bedroom to post another chapter. Why, you may ask? To be honest, the only reason this chapter is up today instead of tomorrow is that I was highly motivated by all the reviews. So thank you to all those who reviewed, followed, and favourited, and thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this far. Virtual cookies and pumpkin pie for you all! And for those of you in Canada, Happy Thanksgiving.<strong>

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**

**Update: Apologies, but I was alerted to errors that existed in this chapter, and my little OCD perfectionist mind forced me to correct it. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, as I am sure is not a surprise to anyone. "Gone Gone Gone" belongs to Phillip Phillips. **

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><p><span>10<span>

Kayla awoke early in the morning to a soft golden glow. Sleepily blinking her eyes open, she smiled at the warm sunlight trickling through the round glass window behind her. When she sat up and twisted around to look through the window, she could see the crimson and orange trees that grew tall on the streets of Paris. It was autumn here, she noted in surprise. Everyone was still sound asleep, oblivious to the rising sun, except for Christine, who would be waking up elsewhere. An underground kind of elsewhere.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon, as if ashamed to show its face. Kayla unlocked her trunk and began to get dressed, wearing her black pants, blue work shirt, sports bra, and boots. She slid her black vest over her shoulders as she folded up her nightgown and cardigan. Locking the trunk once more, she tiptoed out of the dorm with her phone and bag in tow.

The opera house was deserted and silent. Obviously it was too early for anyone to be up. She slowly made her way down onto the stage, and from there into the set manager's office. Fortunately for her, the door was unlocked. She entered the empty room and sat down at the desk, making a mental note to ask Madame Giry for a key. She pulled out her mirror and makeup, and quickly reapplied concealer until her bruises were once again invisible. She brushed out her blonde hair and whipped it back into a loose, low braid. Wiping off the previous day's eye makeup with a Kleenex, she lightly drew black eyeliner around her eye lids, deciding to forgo mascara for the time being. Finished with her one girly routine, she stood and began to search the shelves for the Il Muto set book. Once she found it, she left the office and began to read, familiarizing herself with the story line, characters, and cues, as well as the locations of the set pieces.

Il Muto was very obviously meant to be a parody, and thus was quite amusing. Kayla, who had never been able to figure out the full plot of the opera in question from simply watching the stage productions and movie of _Phantom_, found herself laughing hysterically at the antics described in the book. Once she was confident in her knowledge, she returned the book to the office and retested herself, walking from one piece to the next as she imagined each new movement and change of the set she would be directing later that night. Fortunately for her, there were not as many moving pieces as there had been in Hannibal.

It did not take very long for her to memorize all the placements for each of the five acts. Assured that she would not completely screw up the evening's performance, she navigated the empty labyrinth of the backstage to the main stage. In front of her, the theatre was dark, but on the stage, there was enough weak light drifting in from an unknown location that she could see quite clearly. Absently, she stroked the rose that hung around her neck, and was shocked to discover that the gold chain had no clasp whatsoever. "I guess it wants to stay on until my adventure is done," she muttered to herself.

She had been working, per say, for about an hour, yet the opera house was still silent. Struck by a sudden flash of what she felt was brilliance, Kayla tossed her bag off to the side and set her iPhone on a bench. Making sure the ear buds were safely stowed in her bag, she scrolled through her music, and, when she had found the song she wanted, turned up the volume as loud as she possibly could. With a happy smile, she pressed play.

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><p>Deep beneath the Opera House, there was no change in the darkness to indicate the transition from night to early morning. The Phantom's face wore an uncharacteristically cheerful grin as he stalked through the tunnels that led away from his lair. His angel still slept, and as it was approximately seven 'o'clock in the morning, she would dream for a few more hours yet. Nor would the rest of the Opera wake; dress rehearsals rarely began before half-past-nine, and most of the cast and crew took advantage of every moment of rest. For now, the Opera Populaire was his alone. After a full inspection of the Opera House, creeping along unseen and unheard, the Phantom decided to visit his box – it would be the first time he occupied it in a week of performances, as that ridiculous fop of a Vicomte and his guests had recently commandeered his sacred space. Upon reaching Box Five, however, the Phantom realized he was not alone.<p>

There was a girl in his theatre. She was prancing with reckless abandon around the stage, attired in men's clothing – a coarse indigo shirt, a black vest and trousers, and tight leather boots. The long tail of her streaky blonde braid swished behind her as she spun, and the Phantom suddenly recognized her as the new stagehand, the girl Buquet had almost murdered. Most curiously of all, she was singing, harmonizing with a male voice and music, the source of which he could not identify.

"_When life leaves you high and dry  
>I'll be at your door tonight<br>If you need help, if you need help.  
>I'll shut down the city lights,<br>I'll lie, cheat, I'll beg and bribe  
>To make you well, to make you well...<em>"

It took the Phantom a few moments to ascertain that this was most definitely not piece designed for an orchestra. In fact, after a couple of seconds he distinguished that a piano and possibly a cello were the only classical instruments in the melody.

"_When enemies are at your door  
>I'll carry you away from more<br>If you need help, if you need help.  
>Your hope dangling by a string<br>I'll share in your suffering  
>To make you well, to make you well.<em>"

It was blatantly obvious that the girl had little to no voice training, but she appeared to have the lyrics and tune known by heart. And the music, so unlike anything he had ever heard before, was strangely beautiful in the untrained voice of the girl and the sincere voice of the invisible man.

"_Give me reasons to believe  
>That you would do the same for me.<br>And I would do it for you, for you.  
>Baby, I'm not moving on<br>I love you long after you're gone.  
>For you, for you.<br>You will never sleep alone.  
>I love you long after you're gone<br>And long after you're gone, gone, gone_."

The rhythm of the music was so different from the dramatic operas he heard every day, and the Phantom was intrigued. And unlike the narrative told by an opera, the story in this song was not immediately apparent, but the Phantom felt it all the same. The girl continued to dance across the stage, moving gracefully yet sharply, with movements that made her appear mechanical. Tapping out the beat with the heel of her boot, she continued to sing.

"_When you fall like a statue  
>I'm gonna be there to catch you<br>Put you on your feet, you on your feet.  
>And if your well is empty<br>Not a thing will prevent me.  
>Tell me what you need, what do you need?<br>I surrender honestly.  
>You've always done the same for me.<em>

_So I would do it for you, for you._  
><em>Baby, I'm not moving on,<em>  
><em>I love you long after you're gone.<em>  
><em>For you, for you.<em>  
><em>You will never sleep alone.<em>  
><em>I love you long after you're gone<em>  
><em>And long after you're gone, gone, gone<em>."

The quick tempo of the music suddenly slowed, and the voices of the man and the girl became more melodic, taking on a wistful quality.

"_You're my back bone.  
>You're my cornerstone.<br>You're my crutch when my legs stop moving.  
>You're my head start.<br>You're my rugged heart.  
>You're the pulse that I've always needed.<br>Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.  
>Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.<br>Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.  
>Like a drum my heart never stops beating...<em>"

The percussion pulsed enthusiastically, rising and picking up speed as the line repeated. The girl sang faster, the notes rising and falling with the changing tempo.

"_For you, for you.  
>Baby, I'm not moving on.<br>I love you long after you're gone.  
>For you, for you.<br>You will never sleep alone.  
>I love you long after you're gone.<br>For you, for you.  
>Baby, I'm not moving on,<br>I love you long after you're gone.  
>For you, for you.<br>You will never sleep alone.  
>I love you long, long after you're gone.<br>Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.  
>Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.<br>Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating.  
>Like a drum my heart never stops beating for you<em>."

Her voice was happy, yet tinged with an undeniable sorrow. Her lips curled up into a shining grin and the music slowed once more. She and the male lead slowly blended their voices, all the instruments except a lone guitar falling silent.

"_And long after you're gone, gone, gone.  
>I love you long after you're gone, gone, gone."<em>

The melody gently faded away, and the girl let out a peal of incredibly joyful laughter. "Phillip Phillips at the Opera Populaire," she commented quietly, though her words carried up to Box Five. "Never saw that one coming."

Her words barely registered with the Opera Ghost, who was still too caught up in the memory of the music to properly focus on anything else. The simple song had struck a chord with him; the lyrics exactly described the emotions he currently felt towards Christine. One solitary tear escaped its cage and trickled down his smooth, bare cheek. He angrily brushed it away. "Brava, brava, bravisima!" The gentle notes of appreciation floated out of his mouth before he could even consider stopping them, thrown out in the auditorium by his ventriloquism.

On stage, the girl jumped a foot into the air. "Jävla helvete!" she gasped. Her hand unconsciously flying up to clutch something hanging around her neck, she looked around wildly before her gaze landed on box five – on him. Just like last night, he could feel her scrutinizing blue eyes fixed on him, and he felt the ominous sensation that she knew exactly who was watching her.

"Den jävla ljud skrämde mig," she breathed with a shallow chuckle.

The Phantom did not comprehend the words, but he recognized the language as being Swedish – Christine's mother tongue. "Merci," the girl on stage acknowledged softly with a warm smile in his direction. The Phantom shrank back into the shadows.

"Abbots!" One of the stage rats ran onto the stage, peering around the wooden beams nervously. The girl took her gaze off of the Phantom's box and looked at the young man expectantly. "There's drama going on upstairs, Monsieur Andre wants to see you," the boy rushed, breathing heavily as if he had been running.

The girl cursed under her breath and snatched a small, rectangular object off a table on the stage. Lunging at her bag, she shoved the item inside. "'Kay, I'm coming, Jamie," she barked, swinging the bag over her shoulder, though she failed to notice the thick black book that remained dormant on the wooden floor. She followed the stage rat off the stage, their boots thumping on the wooden panels.

The Phantom waited until the echoes had subsided before he descended to the stage. He carefully picked up the book off the floor and retreated back into his tunnels. At least one good thing had come out of this unusual situation, he thought as he slipped into the dark. He now knew the name of the girl he had saved – Mademoiselle Abbots.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Really, I should be reviewing my astronomy notes because my lecture starts in ten minutes, but no, my procrastinating little mind has decided that posting another chapter is the priority and shall be treated as such. So here it is. And just to clarify, just in case anyone is worried, Kayla is not a Christine replacement. She is not all that musically talented, and will not be joining the opera cast , performing in an opera onstage, or fighting it out with Christine. This is just a fluff chapter to kind of alert Erik that there's something off about Kayla, and more importantly, that magical little box she carries around. <strong>

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed, and please review or PM me with any questions, comments, or critiques. **

**Thanks! **

**Tierney**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: The ownership of Phantom of the Opera and all the fame and fortune that follows still do not belong to me, as that right belongs to Webber, Leroux, and other such stakeholders.**

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><p><span>11<span>

"What time is it?" Kayla panted as she and Jamie raced down the backstage halls and into a section of the opera house she did not recognize.

"About eight," Jamie returned, turning up a set of stairs. "Not many people are awake just yet, but Andre wanted to meet with your privately about something."

Kayla's mouth went dry. Was her career over already? And this thought unearthed a whole host of worries – what if she did get fired? How on earth was she supposed to survive in 1854? How would she get home?

Jamie stopped abruptly in front of her, and Kayla collided into his back with a muffled grunt of pain. The boy turned and winked at her. "Not a chance, Jamie," Kayla warned with a nervous smile.

"You can't blame a man for trying," Jamie grinned back. Gesturing to the large wooden door that lay in front of them, he encouraged, "Go on; Monsieur Andre is expecting you." With a confident nod, he turned and strode off the way they had come. Kayla stared at the door for a moment.

_For heaven's sakes, get a grip; you're an adult, not a frightened school girl_, her snarky side pointed out. Steeling her resolve, Kayla rapped her knuckles on the dark wood.

The door flew open immediately. "Mademoiselle Abbots!" cried Andre, drawing her into the room. "Please, please, come in." Kayla took the seat offered to her, taking a quick glance around the office as she did so.

It was a large, spacious room with a wide window overlooking the silent morning streets of Paris. There were two heavy, luxurious desks next to each other on one side of the room, with gleaming wooden tops and gorgeously upholstered chairs accompanying them. The walls were lined with bookcases, filled with a mixture of novels, guides, photos of the casts, and mementos of plays and travels. Andre sat down on the other side of the desk, shuffling folders, and pushing fountain pens off to the side. "I apologize for the mess," he remarked as he began stacking some of the clutter into piles. "Running an opera house is much more labour intensive than Firmin or I suspected."

"Work of any kind is rarely organized," Kayla commented, trying to quell her stomach, which was trying to tie itself into knots.

Andre finished his impromptu organization and became still, staring at Kayla across the desk with a speculative look on his cheerful face. "Your face appears to have made quite the miraculous recovery," he said at last, gazing intently at the right side in particular.

Kayla brought her fingers self-consciously to her cheek, wincing as she unintentionally probed the carefully concealed bruises. "It's make-up," she explained shame-facedly.

Andre brought his fingertips to meet under his chin and cocked his head at her. "What happened?" he asked gently.

For the third time in the past ten hours, Kayla once again retold the confrontation on the catwalk, though she omitted the brush with death and the phantom. Andre looked quite concerned by the time her story was done.

"I'll go and collect my stuff, then," Kayla muttered helplessly, staring at her hands.

"What on earth do you mean, mademoiselle?" Andre asked, puzzled.

"You're sacking me, aren't you?" Kayla stated sadly, looking up into the manager's kind brown eyes. "I got into a fist fight with my superior on my first day."

"Mademoiselle!" Andre explained, looking at her, aghast. "I would not have hired you in the first place if I planned to have you leave after one performance! And as far as the fighting goes, Madame Giry and your friend Monsieur Jamie Blanchard have both vouched that it was entirely self defense on your part." Kayla simply stared at him with her mouth hanging open. Andre's eyes twinkled. "What I actually wanted to discuss with you," Andre continued, rising from his chair and moving to pace in front of the window, "was your promotion."

Kayla's blue eyes widened. "What?" she spluttered.

"You did exceedingly well at the performance last night, far too well for a junior stagehand," Andre said with a broad smile. "To tell you the truth, based on our discussions with Leverfe, we were already planning on ridding ourselves of Joseph Buquet. The fact that he had the nerve to attack you during a performance is enough to convince us. Buquet will be gone by tomorrow, and Firmin and I have decided that the position of chief stage manager will fall to you."

Kayla's mouth curled into a smile. "I can't believe it," she managed.

"If anyone deserves it, it is you," Andre assured her, grinning at the girl's joy as he sat back down.

Kayla's eyes drifted unbidden to the desk in front of her as she tried to hold back grateful tears. Crying ended up being pushed to bottom of her list of priorities. "What's that?"

Andre followed her gaze, and together the girl and the manager stared in disbelief at the white envelope gracing the formerly empty centre of the desk. Kayla's heart leapt into her throat as she saw the ornate, red skull that seated it. "Where in heaven's name did that come from?" Andre frowned.

"I don't know," Kayla whispered.

Andre gingerly picked up the envelope, and, scraping his nail under the edge of the wax, peeled back the morbid seal. As he flicked the envelope open, the assuming note slid out. The grey haired manager glared at the ink letters and read aloud, with Kayla surreptitiously mouthing the words she had memorized:

"_Dear Andre,_

_What a charming gala! Christine was, in a word, sublime. We were hardly bereft when Carlotta left. On that note, prepare for a disaster should you cast her when she's seasons past her prime._

_O.G._

_P.S. I commend your wisdom on the promotion of Ms. Abbots. She shall be in charge of the sets for tonight's performance, rather that the fool Buquet. Do not dare to ignore these instructions.__ "_

The post script was an unexpected addition, and Kayla was shocked that she of all people had garnered enough attention to be mentioned in a note. Andre's expression easily fell into the category of utter bewilderment. "Who on earth is O.G? And why would he care whether you were promoted?"

Kayla shrugged. "I don't know," she lied.

Andre slipped the note back into the envelope and stood, walking back around the desk to pull out Kayla's chair for her. "Whatever the case, Ms. Abbots, you will be in charge of the sets this evening," the manager declared as he took her arm and led her to the door, gripping the envelope in his other hand. "I will see you back to your wing, and then I must find Firmin."

And that's how Kayla found herself strolling arm in arm with Andre down the gorgeous marble halls of the Opera Populaire. As the pair walked towards the main lobby, Kayla saw Firmin bounding gleefully up the secondary set of stairs that led from the foyer. "To hell with Gluc and Handel; have a scandal and you're sure to have a hit!" Firmin sang happily as he bounced up to their level.

Andre dropped her arm and hastened towards his business partner as Kayla realized that they were about to sing _Notes_. Her inner fangirl was immediately seized by hysterics.

"This is damnable, when they all walk out! This is damnable!" Andre seethed, storming towards his friend, who grabbed him and steered him further down the hall.

"Andre, please don't shout!" Firmin admonished. "It's publicity, and the take is vast! Free publicity!"

"But we have no cast!"

Kayla hummed along quietly as Firmin pointed out the gigantic line for tickets that stretched from the doors of the theatre and some distance into the street outside. Then he noticed the note clutched in Andre's hand, and Kayla continued to hum as Andre read it aloud. She followed this by echoing Firmin's indignant tone as he read his own letter to Andre.

"_Dear Firmin,_

_Just a brief reminder: my salary has not been paid. Send it care of the ghost by return of post. PTO No one likes a debtor so it's better that my orders were obeyed." _

"Who would have the gall to send this?" they wondered. "Someone with a purer brain. These are both signed O.G, who the hell is he?"

"Opera Ghost?" Kayla supplied under her breath.

"Opera Ghost!" they shouted. "It's nothing short of shocking…"

"He is mocking our position!"

"In addition he wants money…"

"It's clear the man is clearly quite insane!"

"Where is she?" Raoul de Chagny burst into the foyer like the hounds of hell were on his tail. As the patron and managers musically argued about the source of the newest letter and the current location of Christine, Kayla amused herself by attempting to identify the colour of the Vicomte's hair. Today it was either hazel brown or deep gold; she could not decide which.

"Do not fear for Ms. Daäe. The Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again," Firmin read skeptically.

"If you didn't write it, who did?" Raoul demanded bluntly.

The wooden doors burst open and Carlotta, Piangi, and their silly prep crew came sweeping into the opera house with all the tact of a Canadian snowstorm. "Oh, here we go," Kayla sneered quietly with an exaggerated eye roll as Carlotta started to sing-song scream at Raoul and the mangers, who denied all claims in tones that perfectly complemented the diva's ire.

"Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered," Raoul sighed, warm hazel eyes flickering over the black scrawl of the newest note. "Christine Daäe will be singing on your behalf tonight. Prepare for a great misfortune should you attempt to take her place."

Carlotta's face was so red that it appeared that her head exploding was an inevitable possibility. After exchanging a meaningful look, Firmin and Andre hurriedly linked arms with the furious diva and sang, "Far too many notes for my taste, and most of them about Christine. All we've heard since we came is Ms. Daäe's name…"

"Ms. Daäe has returned."

Madame Giry and Meg appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Raoul, Carlotta, and the managers whipped around to face the newcomers. Kayla was the only one who was unsurprised.

"I hope no worse for wear, as far as we're concerned!" Firmin groaned indistinctly.

"Where is she now?" Raoul asked anxiously.

"I thought it best she was alone," Madame Giry explained.

"She needed rest," Meg supported softly, with her eyes fixated on the ground.

"May I see her?" Raoul requested eagerly, stepping forward.

Madame Giry held up a hand to stop his advance. "No monsieur, she will see no one," the ballet mistress stated firmly.

Carlotta and Piangi exchanged a sharp, distrustful glance, and screeched, "Will she sing? Will she sing?"

In response, Madame Giry held out the fourth white envelope of the day, and there was an immediate clamor for possession, from which Firmin emerged victorious. It was he who tore into the envelope and pulled out the latest piece of correspondence. Firmin began to recite.

Unexpectedly, Kayla's vision blurred, and her legs began shaking so badly that she was forced to support her weight on the smooth stair rails. When she shut her eyes, she could see the dark silhouette of the Phantom, sitting at his desk in front of his model of Il Muto. His deep, melodious voice echoed through her mind.

"_Gentlemen, I have now sent you a number of notes of the most amiable nature detailing how my theatre is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance. Ms. Daäe has returned to you, and I am anxious her career should progress. In tonight's production of Il Muto, you shall therefore cast Carlotta as the page boy, and put Ms. Daäe in the role of Countess. The role that Ms. Daäe plays calls for charm and appeal; the role of the page boy is silent, which makes my casting, in a word, ideal. I shall watch the performance from my usual seat in Box Five, which __will__ be kept empty for me. Should my commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur_."

The part of Kayla's brain that was not being hijacked by some sort of flash back snarled, "_Not beyond __my__ imagination it ain't_." She continued to watch, immobile, as the Phantom poured hot crimson wax onto the envelope and stamped it with his seal, inspecting the red skull with an ominous smile. "_I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant – O.G."_

Kayla's eyes snapped open and the hallucination dissolved as the angry prima donna let out the most unholy shriek Kayla had ever heard. "It's all a ploy to help Christine!"

"This is insane," Firmin moaned.

"I know who sent this!" Carlotta shrilled, turning on Raoul. "The Vicomte – her lover!"

"Indeed?" Raoul scoffed sarcastically. "Can you believe it?"

"Signora!" Andre protested, hurrying down the stairs after the incensed diva, who appeared, at least to Kayla's ears, to be swearing in Italian.

"This is a joke!" Firmin hissed. "Signora!"

"This changes nothing!" Andre called. Carlotta continued towards the door. "You are our star!"

"And always will be!" Firmin added. "The man is mad!"

"We don't take orders!" Andre blustered.

Kayla resisted the urge to roll her eyes and shut her eyes again; her head was pounding. If this migraine was going to happen every time there was a change in perspective, according to the movie at least, this would be no fun at all.

"Miss Daäe will be playing the page boy – the silent role," Firmin announced loudly. "Carlotta will be playing the lead!"

Despite all the flattery, Carlotta continued to wax melodramatic and make for the exit. Kayla, who was in no mood to watch Andre and Firmin serenade-slash-kiss Carlotta's spoiled ass, stayed exactly where she was as Carlotta and her entourage whooshed away, with the pleading managers following close behind.

"Are you alright?"

Kayla lazily opened one eye to detect the source of the inquiry, and was shocked to discover Raoul looking down at her. "Something is trying to break out of my skull with a sledgehammer, and I'm getting really tired of Carlotta's bullshit, but besides that, I'm just dandy," she mumbled sarcastically. "Thank you for your concern, Vicomte."

"Please, call me Raoul," the man requested kindly, paying no mind to Kayla's attitude.

Kayla squinted up at Raoul and smiled. "Thanks, Raoul," she said. "I wish the other guys I know were a gentlemanly as you. No wonder Christine likes you so much."

To Kayla's great amusement, the young nobleman's cheeks took on a hint of crimson. He allowed Kayla to lean on his arm as she struggled to stand upright. As she stood swaying, Madame Giry and Meg approached.

"I need to speak with you, Kayla," Madame Giry stated, her voice laced with stress.

"Will Christine be all right? Is she safe?" Raoul cut in.

Madame Giry nodded tiredly. "You will no doubt see her at the performance, Vicomte," she agreed. "But for now, pray excuse us."

Raoul inclined his head in acceptance, and released Kayla, who took a few wobbly steps before Meg swooped in to support her. "See you later, Raoul," Kayla grinned drunkenly.

"Good afternoon, ladies," Raoul bowed before stalking away, muttering something about rejecting plans. Madame Giry led the way out of the lobby.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Apologies for the long wait... its midterm season and I have a lot of work to do. Also I'm trying to get through multiple seasons of about five different shows simultaneously, which really isn't helping my productivity all that much. Nevertheless, I'll try my best to post once a week at least. Thanks for reading, and please review or PM with any questions, comments, or constructive critiques. <strong>

**Thanks! **

**Tierney **


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, that right belongs to Webber, Leroux, and all the other geniuses. **

* * *

><p><span>12<span>

Madame Giry led the way to her office before sending Meg away to organize the ballet corps. She forced Kayla to sit down before revealing yet another white envelope – the only difference being that this one was addressed to Kayla herself. With trembling hands, Kayla opened the note.

"_Mademoiselle Abbots_," the note began crisply.

"_I would first like to congratulate you on your acceptance of employment at the Opera Populaire. In addition, I commend you on your level of professionalism and expertise during last evening's gala._

_I quite frankly approve of Monsieur Andre's decision to promote you to the head of backstage management. You are to work on the catwalk once again this evening, but, if you value your life, do not work near Joseph Buquet. Focus on your own duties on you will have nothing to fear. Should you ignore my warning, do not expect to escape unscathed._

_I look forward to watching your commendable work at tonight's performance, and will contact you soon, as I have a proposition that may require your assistance. I remain, mademoiselle, your faithful patron,_

_O.G._"

Kayla felt frozen, as if the message on the page before her was a curse that turned her to stone. _The Phantom of the Opera_ considered himself to be her patron? The one happy fact she could currently see was that he, as of yet, did not want her dead, or else he would not have warned her about the folly of shadowing Buquet. As if she would willingly stalk that man after he had almost murdered her.

Madame Giry's lips were pursed so tightly that her mouth looked like a perfectly straight line. "He is pleased with you," she stated quietly.

"But why?" Kayla wondered.

Madame Giry simply shrugged her thin shoulders.

Kayla flipped over the piece of stationary, revealing a postscript that had been hastily scrawled on the other side.

"I have borrowed something of yours, for safekeeping, as it was abandoned on the stage earlier this morning. It will be returned to you provided my orders are obeyed."

Blue eyes bulging, Kayla pounced at her bag and began to paw through the contents. iPhone and headphones, check; cosmetics, check; wallet, check; university stuff, check; art supplies, check. And she suddenly realized what was missing: her sketchbook. Kayla's mind immediately overflowed with curse words in every and any language she could think of. "Oh shit," however, was the only one she said aloud.

Madame Giry looked scandalized. "What's wrong?" she asked, sounding only a touch disapproving.

"He's got my sketchbook," Kayla hyperventilated, banging her head on the edge of the desk and cursing her stupidity.

Madame Giry, fortunately, understood the gravity of the situation instantly. "Are there any drawings that would alert him to who you are?"

Kayla groaned and slammed her forehead onto the desk again. "Yes," she grumbled. "There's a sketch of him without the mask."

Madame Giry inhaled sharply. "He is going to effing kill me," Kayla mumbled into the wood. "I am going to effing die here."

"I am afraid I do not know what he may do," Madame Giry sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "All I can tell you is to be careful."

"Caution means nothing if he wants me dead," Kayla moaned.

"What will happen to you?" Madame Giry inquired timidly. "If you die here?"

Kayla raised her head and stared at the older woman thoughtfully. "I don't know," Kayla murmured sadly. "Maybe I'll wake up at home. Maybe I'll be dead at home, I don't know. This isn't a normal occurrence with a predictable ending."

The woman's face was grim. "I will not allow misfortune to befall you if I can help it," she declared.

Kayla smiled weakly. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I don't think that there's much you can do against _him_."

"I saved his life," the ballet mistress insisted. "He will listen to me."

"I sure as hell hope so," Kayla muttered.

"Come," Madame Giry stated resignedly. "I need to alert Christine to her new role, and there are other preparations to attend to."

The two women walked to the backstage silently as mice. Kayla's footsteps lagged, as if her feet had decided that they were not in the mood to go anywhere. Madame Giry seemed no less reluctant as they moved through the wings. Her lined face was melancholy as she gently removed the page boy costume from a mannequin. "He has heard… the angel sees; the angel knows," she murmured distractedly, draping the bundle of pastel-coloured fabric over her arm.

After that, the two separated – Madame Giry to help Christine into her costume, and Kayla off to help set up the stage. Most of the pieces were already prepped for movement between acts, and the arrangement of the bedroom scene for the first act, though labour intensive, did not take very much time to complete. When her fellow stagehands discovered that Kayla was experienced in costuming, Jamie and Clemens dragged her to the large cast and dancers' dressing room to assist the actors and ballerinas with their makeup and outfits.

Thus, when the audience began to congregate in the lobby about an hour before seating was scheduled to begin, Kayla found herself painting the face of yet another actor, covering the cheeks and forehead with white using broad, smooth strokes. It was about six 'o'clock in the evening now, and Kayla had not taken a break since her sojourn to the stage that morning. Her body had recently come to the realization that it had not ingested food since the afternoon of her inter-universe jump over a day previously, and her stomach had decided that the most logical course of action was to eat itself.

Pulling out a different pot, Kayla brushed shimmery blue powder over the man's brows and cheekbones, accentuating his features so they would be easily seen on stage. She added a coat of baby-blue to his lips, and a navy blotch to his cheek. Surreptitiously pulling up a picture of the "fops" on her phone for reference, Kayla inspected her work. "I think you're done," she ventured, holding up a mirror. The actor examined his face in the reflective glass, turning his head from side to side to check every detail.

"Perfect!" the man exclaimed, sounding slightly surprised. "I've never had my makeup look this good!"

"She's quite talented, isn't she?" smirked a woman in a flamboyant lavender dress with matching makeup. Laughing, she smacked the man in the back of the head, nodding respectfully at Kayla. "She painted me and Francois as well," the actress added, gesturing at a man in lemon yellow.

"Did she really?" the actor in blue asked delightedly. He turned to Kayla with new-found admiration. "Thank you, mademoiselle, for your expert job," he stated politely. "I'm Antoine, by the way."

"No problem," Kayla acknowledged, feeling bashful. "Nice to meet you."

Setting his tall white wig atop his head, Antoine strolled away, perfectly balanced on the kitten heels his costume required. Kayla grinned in amusement, but the expression quickly faded as a double wave of dizziness and nausea overtook her.

"Kayla?" The newest greeting came from Meg, who was already made-up and costumed for her role. "Are you feeling any better?"

Kayla looked up at the delicate ballerina with a tired smile. "I'm pretty good, considering that I've been working for six hours, and haven't eaten for possibly a day and a half," she remarked cheerfully.

Meg's mouth dropped open. "Why didn't you say anything earlier?" she spluttered. Kayla merely shrugged. "I'll show you where the kitchen and dining hall are after the performance, as there's not enough time right now, but I'll be right back with something to tide you over until then," Meg promised quickly before vanishing into the busy crowd.

A group of young ballerinas approached Kayla timidly, and shyly requested help with their cosmetics. Remembering how in awe _she_ had been of older girls when she was younger, Kayla happily obliged, drawing them into a comfortable conversation as she worked her way through the ranks. Thankfully, the girls knew exactly what their make-up was supposed to look like, and became freer with their suggestions and descriptions as they warmed to her presence.

Thus, when Meg finally returned, Kayla had at least fifteen adolescent girls gathered in a semi-circle around her, watching her finish up the final dancer's makeup and listening attentively to the story Kayla was telling. Kayla powdered the girl's cheeks with blush as she continued her tale.

"The girl reached out to touch the dying rose when… BANG!" she cried, and the girls squealed in fright. "The lid was slammed back down. '_Why are you here?_' the Beast snarled angrily. _'I ordered you to stay out of the West Wing!_' The frightened girl tried to apologize, but the Beast roared loudly and leapt at her with claws outstretched. She fled, racing out of the castle and into the storm that howled with icy rage outside."

Kayla had originally been at a loss as to what to talk about, but when the topic had rolled around to her background, the girls had begged to hear some of the stories she had grown up with in Canada. Though the irony of her choice did not escape her, Kayla decided on Beauty and the Beast – the lighthearted animated retelling, of course.

"While the Beast grieved the loss of a chance to break the curse, Belle galloped with Philippe out of the foreboding gates, not hearing the cries of the hungry wolves that flew on the whistling winter winds," Kayla described dramatically as her audience stood rapt with wonder.

Meg held out an apple and a warm sourdough bun to Kayla as the storyteller set down the makeup brushes. The young dancer opposite Kayla snatched up a mirror and peered at her reflection with a contented little grin.

"All dancers need to be ready to warm up in five minutes!" Madame Giry barked as she stuck her head into the room. There was an immediate flurry of activity as all the ballerinas made for the door. The younger dancers who were standing around Kayla followed the order with obvious reluctance, slowly gathering up their props and adjusting their costumes.

"Will you tell us the rest of the story later?" one requested hopefully.

"Of course," Kayla responded warmly. With happy squeaks of thanks, and cheerful "good lucks", her new disciples scurried after their older counterparts.

Kayla snatched the apple and bun out of Meg's hands and began eating ravenously. "Thank you Meg; you wonderful lifesaver you," she moaned around a mouthful of fruit.

"The little girls seem to like you," Meg commented.

Kayla shrugged, finished the apple, and tore into the bun. "I have sisters and cousins, I know how it is," she explained thickly, cramming pieces of bread into her mouth. "Attention from an older girl can be a pretty big deal."

Meg tilted her head curiously. "How old are you?" she asked abruptly. "If you don't mind me asking."

"Twenty," Kayla replied automatically. "I'll be twenty-one in January."

Startled, Meg blurted out, "Why aren't you married yet?"

The bread decided to take a detour down her windpipe. Kayla managed to save herself from death by choking before she laughed out loud. "Married?" she spluttered. "That's hilarious… if there's one thing you should know about me, darling – boys are not interested in me."

"The Vicomte seems to be," Meg objected flatly.

"Not at all," Kayla snickered, amused by the ridiculousness of the idea. "Trust me, he's going for Christine," she stated. "They'll be engaged before New Year's, I bet you."

"What are the stakes?" Meg asked slyly.

"Oh, it's a legit bet now? I don't have any money," Kayla laughed.

"You will as soon as you get your first wages," Meg pointed out. "How about two francs?"

"Done," Kayla agreed. They shook on it.

Madame Giry reappeared in the doorway. "Meg, you should be warming up now," she ordered. Meg started guiltily, and hurried out into the backstage. The ballet mistress walked closer as Kayla stood and picked up her bag. "Kayla, the rest of the crew is gathering behind the wings," she explained softly. "You should join them."

Kayla nodded and slung her bag securely across her shoulders, adjusting the work belt Madame Giry handed to her across her hips. "Thank you, Madame Giry," Kayla articulated slowly. "For everything."

The older woman looked at her sharply. "You will survive this evening," she declared icily, in response to Kayla's silent worry. "You are a young woman. He will not harm you."

"But I know his secrets," Kayla protested wearily. "I know what he's planning."

Madame Giry's gaze softened in confusion. "What is he planning?"

"Buquet's going to die," Kayla revealed in a rush.

The ballet mistress's features tightened determinedly. "So be it," she said. "You, Kayla, will be safe – he is, if anything, a chivalrous gentleman."

"I hope you're right."

Madame Giry gave Kayla's arm a reassuring squeeze before hurrying off, probably to collect Christine.

Kayla took a deep, calming breath, dropped her bag off in her soon-to-be-office, and went to join the crew.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Thank you everyone for reading! Feel free to review and PM if you have any questions, comments, or critiques.<br>**

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: So, sorry for the delay in posting, the week kind of got away from me, what with midterms and work and such... but here it is now! I still do not own Phantom of the Opera, that right belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Gaston Leroux, and others. **

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><p><span>13<span>

Joseph Buquet was standing in the circle of stagehands when Kayla arrived, and the man looked visibly startled to see that she was unharmed. "Yes, I am alive, asshole," Kayla barked by way of greeting before turning to the men she would be officially managing.

"Clemens and Jean, if you could please be in charge of the level two balcony, left side; Henri and Andre are on the right. Francis with Baptiste and Germaine with Rene are taking the first balcony, left and right respectively. The left wings are the jurisdiction of Dennis, Leo, and Edward, the other side gets Bernard, Marius, and Gerald. The rest of you are on duty backstage. Jamie, you're with me on the catwalk." The instructions fell from her lips with ease, and there was not a single complaint – unless, of course, they were counting Buquet.

"Who put you in charge?" the coarse man growled.

"Our new managers," Kayla spat. "They seemed to like my professional behaviour. Yours, on the other hand, left much to be desired."

"Oh, really?" Buquet sneered.

"You'll be eating your words after they fire your ass," Kayla snarled.

"Oh, I see," Buquet chortled. "You're the managers' whore."

Kayla's vision tinted crimson, and her mouth opened before she could stop herself. "Oh ho! Says the man who watches the dancers _changing_, you lecherous old _sot_!" she shrieked. "I got this job because I keep high standards of responsibility, not because I let my bosses get me into bed. Unlike you, who gets to stick around, probably because you and a couple of the dancers have a creepy little arrangement going on, you slut."

In that section of the backstage, you could have heard a pin drop. After a moment, Jamie let out a long, drawn-out whistle of approval. Clemens was grinning in undisguised delight, some of the older men were visibly holding back laughter, and the other teenagers burst into applause. Buquet, on the other hand, was growing red with fury.

Kayla drew her fingertips down her cheek, causing streaks of concealer to disappear. The rest of the crew gaped when they saw the sickly purple bruises. "Next time, leave less evidence when you fail to murder someone," Kayla hissed. "Tonight is your last night at the Opera Populaire, one way or another, and if you interfere with this performance or threaten me and anyone else in any way, I will kill you myself."

Buquet's face was a priceless combination of anger and fear, and he was not the only one who looked furious. Jamie, who was already privy to the revelation, was bristling. Her teenage fanclub looked ready to rip Buquet to shreds, and the older ones were radiating protective, fatherly rage.

"I have an idea!" Kayla exclaimed poisonously. "Germaine and Rene, would you take Buquet up to level one, and keep an eye on him, please? That way you can notify me if there are any… unpleasantries."

Germaine – a broad, gentle man who reminded Kayla of her father – calmly replied, "Yes, of course, Abbots."

Kayla smiled gratefully at him before turning to the others. "Is everyone clear on their positions?" she demanded.

"Yes, Abbots," the crew chorused.

"Alright, get to it, then; before Carlotta can try to change anything," she instructed in mock-seriousness, and they all chuckled.

Suddenly, a series of high-pitched notes that vaguely reminded Kayla of a teakettle echoed from a distant section of the backstage. Jamie looked at Kayla in mock horror. "Speak of the devil…" he remarked casually.

All intent on avoiding an encounter with the insufferable soprano, the group hastily dispersed to their positions. Germaine and Rene all but dragged Buquet towards the balcony stairs, while Jamie and Kayla scurried up a second set of stairs to the catwalks. Therefore, Kayla had a first class aerial view of Firmin and Andre, struggling to carry the large, bulky litter on which Carlotta was comfortably reclining.

Carlotta's extravagantly puffy, lacy pink dress had to be lowered onto her by a set of makeshift pulleys that extended out from one of the balconies. In some miraculous feat of engineering, the high, bejeweled whit wig stood straight and tall on her slender neck without wobbling. Carlotta's olive skin was completely covered with white, and layered with blush on her cheeks. As the managers continued to shower Carlotta with lyrical compliments, Christine, Madame Giry, and Meg emerged from the wings with the air of people on the way to a funeral. Christine's brown eyes were distant and glazed over with despair.

The entire cast was gathered on the stage as everyone fussed over Carlotta's costume. Then, as if prompted by some invisible force, everyone on stage began to sing. "Light up the stage with that age-old rapport! Sing prima donna…" They paused to take one synchronized breath. "Ooooonce mooooore!"

As the song ended, Kayla called down, "Nice first attempt, y'all." Jamie snickered next to her. "_Attempt_ being the operative word in this scenario."

Carlotta whipped around to pinpoint the source of the sass, and it took her a couple of seconds to think to look up. When she finally did, the diva was incensed. "How dare you!" she shrieked.

"Trust me, darling, I'll dare as often as I like," Kayla replied sweetly. "I'd invite you to come up here and remedy the situation, but I doubt your dress would fit." Jamie clapping his hand over his mouth, bending over and hanging onto one of the ropes, shaking with silent laughter.

"You have no right…" Carlotta shrilled, but Jamie immediately cut her off.

"I think the rest of us would argue that she has every right," the young man defended icily, leaning over the rails to glare at the prima donna. "Do your own job, and we'll do ours."

From their hiding places in the wings, the other stagehands burst into applause.

"This silly girl has no place in this opera house!" Carlotta screamed, her Italian accent becoming more pronounced in her rage.

Andre drew himself up to his full, though unimpressive, height and stated coldly, "You may be the prima donna, Signora, but allow me to make the employment decisions, if you please."

Kayla grinned cheekily and waved sarcastically before stepping out of range of the diva's death stare.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare yourselves, as we will be starting the performance in twenty minutes," Firmin instructed loudly, and dragged Andre away to the hallway leading to the managers' office.

There was a moment of confused silence, and then the cast came alive. Piangi and his incredibly short sidekick removed themselves to their position outside of the "door". The three "fops" whose makeup Kayla had applied earlier – Antoine in blue, Francois in yellow, and Annette in lavender – set up behind the red velvet curtain. Carlotta primly sat on the bed that dominated centre stage, while Meg shoved Christine, causing the young singer to land on the mattress on all fours, like a cat. Christine looked shocked for a moment, but started to laugh quietly. When Carlotta finally managed to shush the dancer and the young soprano's hysterical giggles, Christine appeared to be much calmer and brighter. Once Christine was properly seated next to Carlotta, Meg drew the bed curtains across, blocking the two leads for the audience's view, and whisked away to her own position in the wings.

Kayla could hear the murmurs of the spectators on the other side of the curtain. Surveying the wings and balconies, she confirmed that her crew members were in their places. A questioning glance at Germaine was returned by a signal that Buquet was still being monitored. A second glance at the wings was rewarded with a firm but reassuring nod from Madame Giry.

All too soon, Kayla caught the familiar notes of the orchestra's warm-up. "_Let the audience in, let my opera begin,_" she muttered to herself as with a swell in the melody, the curtains flew aside, and the three fops pranced forward, with Meg springing out close behind.

"They say a certain youth has set my lady's heart aflame!" Annette trilled.

"His lordship would surely die of shock!"

"His lordship is a laughing stock!"

Together, the three sang, "If he suspect her, God protect her! Shame! Shame! Shame!"

"This faithless lady's bound for Hades; shame, shame, shame!"

With a comical wag of her finger, Meg pulled back the bed curtains. The movement revealed Christine and Carlotta, who, to the eyes of the audience, appeared to be making-out behind Carlotta's lacy rose fan. The viewers, with whom this opera seemed to be a favourite, burst into applause as Carlotta lowered the fan and Christine clapped her hand to her mouth in an exaggerated motion of shock.

Kayla peered over at Box Five. Unsurprised to see it occupied, she found herself still annoyed that the managers were practically begging for disaster. "Oh Raoul, you utter asshat," Kayla sighed exasperatedly.

Jamie cast a curious glance in her direction. "What's bothering you, Abbots?" he inquired.

"The Vicomte is sitting in the Phantom's box," she explained tersely, tilting her head towards Box Five.

"Do you believe the stories, then?" Jamie asked cautiously.

"We have nothing if not belief," Kayla quoted, still glaring at the oblivious nobleman. "Besides, I have my suspicions, so if I tell you to do something, just do it, understood?"

Jamie nodded, convinced by the serious look Kayla could feel plastered across her face.

"Serefimo, you're disguise is perfect!" Carlotta warbled. A member of the orchestra rapped on a wooden box, perfectly imitating the sound of a knock. "Who can this be?"

Piangi waltzed onto the stage through the "door", looking as proud as a peacock. "Gentle wife, admit your loving husband," he proclaimed, pretending to grope Meg, who in turn acted shocked. The audience applauded again, and Kayla resisted the urge to slam her head into something. "My love – I am called to England on affairs of State, and must leave you with your new maid. Though I'd 'appily take the maid with me," Piangi added with a self-satisfied smirk.

"The old fool is leaving!" Carlotta stage-whispered, earning another round of laughter. The singing exchange continued, after which Piangi and his sidekick took their leave. Carlotta peered furtively after him before crying, "Serefimo – away with this pretense!"

Christine strode confidently to the front of the stage, tearing off her skirt and casting it aside. Annette, Francois, and Antoine let out dramatic gasps. "You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's absence," Carlotta sang, holding up her fan as she and Christine leaned behind it once again. Piangi stuck his head back through the doorway and shook his fist at the display.

Hooking their arms around each other's waists, Christine and Carlotta floated in a circle as Carlotta continued, "Poor fool, he makes me laugh, haha, haha! Time I tried to get a better, better half! Poor fool, he doesn't know! Hoho, hoho! If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!"

Suddenly, a voice echoed through the theatre. "Did I not instruct," the invisible Phantom boomed.

The audience let out gasps of surprise, and the cast on stage all wore identical masks of horror. Jamie's brown eyes were bulging. Striking a pose, Kayla laughed as she mouth along to the next words, gesturing dramatically.

"…that Box Five was to be kept _empty_?"

"No really, bright eyes? What alerted you?" Kayla wondered sarcastically. Jamie, overhearing, stifled a chuckle, looking significantly less freaked out than he had been a few seconds before.

"It's him," Christine breathed, looking around wildly.

Snapping her bright pink fan shut, Carlotta brandished said prop at Christine and snarled, "Your part is silent, little toad!" Trying to laugh off the interruption, Carlotta swept off the wings to get a hit of her throat spray. It was the worst character break Kayla had ever seen on stage.

No one else could hear the ghostly words that followed, but to Kayla, Erik's voice was as clear as if he was standing right next to her. "A toad, madame?" the Phantom mused. "Perhaps it is _you_, who are the toad."

Carlotta returned to her position onstage, issuing playful instructions to Maestro Reyer. She began to sing as if nothing had transpired. "Serefimo, away with this pretense; you cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's abs…" As she made to finish the word, a ghastly croak issued from her throat. Rightly so, Carlotta and the rest of the cast were horrified, though the audience, thinking it was some kind of joke, roared with merriment.

"Abbots!" The desperate plea reached Kayla's ears from the first balcony. Twisting around to answer, Kayla saw Germaine leaning over the railing. "Buquet ran off," he hissed worriedly. "What do we do?"

Kayla felt the crushing weight of leadership sinking on her shoulders. Smacking her forehead, she formulated her plan. "I want the entire crew down at the muster point, behind the stage right wings. No one is to be on the balconies or the catwalk, understood?" she barked.

"What about Buquet?" Germaine asked urgently.

"If a grown man can't take care of himself, nothing we can do will protect him," Kayla declared. "Natural selection, if you will. Now forget Buquet and get downstairs, now!"

"Yes, Abbots!" Germaine affirmed, and whisked away to spread the word and collect the other men on the balconies.

"Jamie, go downstairs and gather up the lower level crew," Kayla ordered sharply, and the young man obeyed immediately.

Recovering from the shock, Carlotta made a second attempt. "Oh poor fool he makes me laugh, aha, aha! Aha, ACK!"

Carlotta screamed, sounding both terrified and mortified, and ran off the stage as quickly as her high heels would allow. The curtain hastily swung shut, and Antoine, who was caught in front of it, took several moments to find the opening and slip back out of sight. Firmin and Andre burst onto the stage, wide-eyed and frazzled.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Firmin called, his mustache bristling as he visibly held back panic. "We apologize," he continued after a pause. "The performance will continue…"

Maestro Reyer threw up his hands in exasperation, exhibiting the 1800's equivalent of a "WTF" face. The audience gaped.

"…in ten minutes time, when the role of the Countess shall be played by Ms. Daäe!" Firmin concluded as Andre dragged Christine out from behind the curtain to display to audience.

Madame Giry yanked Christine back off stage, and Kayla watched them hurry back to the dressing room.

"Thank you for your patience," Andre articulated carefully. "Meanwhile, we would like to present the ballet from Act Three of tonight's opera…"

"What?" Reyer cried.

"The ballet, maestro? The ballet!" Andre blustered. The managers bowed and whisked off stage again.

As Antoine was caught in front of the curtain yet again, performing a little dance of his own to a delighted audience, Kayla raced down the ladder to the balcony and down the stairs to the muster point. "You heard the managers, we're trying this again," Kayla grimaced as soon as she was in earshot of the company. "Does anybody know what scene they want us to start from?"

"Scene two," returned Clemens promptly. "That's what Madame Giry told me."

Kayla's brain automatically pulled up the pages of the set book, enabling her to visualize the new set quite clearly. "Alright, scene two is in the garden, so we need the bed to be removed, plus the bedroom walls away, and the forest backdrop needs to come down," Kayla flung out the set pieces as they occurred to her. "I want the six strongest moving the bed, the rest deal with the walls; let's move!"

The set crew sprang into action, ducking and diving around the young ballerinas who were beginning their routine onstage. Kayla hurried to help Jamie pull back one of the walls, scuffing her boots against the wooden floor as she heaved at the unyielding piece. As the pair finally dragged the wall back to its home in the wings, Clemens sprinted up. "Kayla… I mean, Abbots," he spluttered, blushing. "We need to bring down the backdrop, and since the catwalk is your area of expertise, we figured you'd be best for the job," he rushed.

"On it," Kayla nodded resolutely, adjusting her work belt around her hips before jogging up the stairs again.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: There we are! Again, sorry for the delay. Also, in Chapter 11 I was alerted to the fact that I messed up on the dates; I wrote 1854 in the first paragraph when it should be 1870, and I was too lazy to change it. Just a heads up in case anyone was confused. :)<strong>

**Please review or PM with any questions, constructive criticism, or other comments. **

**Thanks! **

**Tierney **


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, as it belongs to Webber, Leroux, and others. **

* * *

><p><span>14<span>

Even though her official promotion was still pending, Kayla felt a surge of pride as she saw that the set had been completely changed over to that of scene two, and that her crew was nowhere in sight as the ballet continued on the stage. Climbing hand over hand up the ladder, Kayla crawled up onto the catwalk. And there was Joseph Buquet, standing in the middle of the catwalk as if under a spell.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kayla asked warily, pulling the rope to release the backdrop. Below, she could see Jamie and Rene securing the fallen piece to the stage floor.

"He's here," Buquet said in a monotone, looking around in a daze.

Kayla frowned. "Dude - he's the Phantom. He's freaking everywhere."

It did not come as a shock when Buquet immediately turned on her. "You're in league with him!" he snarled.

Kayla held her hands up in mock surrender. "Well, I guess you found me out," she stated sarcastically. "No, I'm not the Phantom's sidekick, you warthog-faced buffoon."

Buquet took another menacing step towards her. "Then how come you know so much about him?" he sneered.

Kayla backed away as cautiously as if she was facing a rabid dog. "Stay away from me, Buquet," she warned, moving towards the makeshift bridge of ropes that connected the first level of the catwalk to the second level.

Buquet opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden whisk of a black cape was more than enough to distract him. As he turned to peer into the darkness, Kayla flew up the coarse ropes to the higher level. The overweight stagehand twisted back and forth, his hands balled into fists. Kayla clung to the support ropes and watched silently. In the time it took her to blink, the Phantom appeared, looming over Buquet like the Grim Reaper. Buquet turned, saw the masked face inches from his own, gave a terrified, girly gasp, and bolted. The Phantom disappeared into the gloom in a move that reminded Kayla of apparition.

The look on Buquet's face was so comically scared that Kayla almost burst into a fit of silent giggles. Unfortunately, her amusement had to be put on hold, as Buquet fled to the level on which she had sought refuge. The Phantom's warning rang in her ears: "_If you value your life, do not work near Joseph Buquet__._" And so she ran.

If she was not feeling so nervous, it would have been incredibly entertaining to spectate the game of cat-and-mouse the Phantom played with Buquet. When the Phantom psyched out the former-stage manager by mimicking his attempts to get past, Kayla actually laughed out loud. But then the pattern changed.

The Phantom leapt up a rope with the agility of a gymnast. It was clear that this was becoming more of a hunt than a game. Kayla knew exactly what was coming, but the reality of the cost was only just sinking in. The graceful movements of the shadowed Ghost were sinister, predatory – the dance of murder. Kayla was paralyzed, though her mind was screaming at her to run, to get down to the stage, where there were people to protect her. As the lighthearted music of the ballet echoed from the orchestra pit, Buquet stumbled, hitting the slats of the catwalk like a ton of bricks. The Phantom pounced just as Buquet rolled over. In lightning speed, the noose tightened around the stagehand's meaty neck.

Buquet struggled violently, but the lasso was unyielding. The Phantom was exerting no effort at all, and the light from the stage was enough to illuminate the impassive expression on his handsome face. Buquet's countenance was panicked and turning blue, a combination that was not handsome in the slightest. The stagehand pulled in vain at the rope around his windpipe, but the Phantom yanked it tighter. Staring contemplatively at Buquet's thrashing form, the Phantom smiled smugly. Joseph Buquet gurgled, his feet kicking wildly. So quickly that Kayla was unable to see how he managed it, the Phantom flipped Buquet over the edge of the catwalk and let him drop.

Joseph Buquet fell down in the centre of the stage. From where she stood, Kayla heard his neck break with a sharp crack. Dangling over the ballerinas, his body twisted and jerked like a macabre marionette. The young dancers screamed.

The Phantom grinned in a self-satisfied sort of way before releasing the rope, allowing the corpse to crumple to the ground. Rising to his feet, the Phantom of the Opera straightened his cravat and turned, staring directly at Kayla. Her heartbeat thundering in her ears, Kayla stared back in utter horror. The Phantom smiled, his lips curling, and brought one finger to his lips in a classic "shush" gesture. With a catlike leap, he flew up onto the topmost balcony and melted into the dark.

As soon as the Opera Ghost disappeared, Kayla regained control over her muscles. Stumbling and clinging to the ropes, Kayla shakily made her way off the catwalk and down to the wings.

Backstage was utter chaos. Dancers and actors were gathered in terrified clumps, dead silent or shrieking, depending on the group. Kayla dimly heard Firmin and Andre yelling from their box, pleading with the audience to remain calm and in their seats. Kayla's head spun and she leaned against the edge of a shelf. _At least _you're_ not dead_, a part of her interjected unhelpfully.

"Abbots!"

Kayla became aware that someone was shaking her shoulder, and Jamie's face appeared in front of her. "Abbots!" he repeated urgently. "You're white as a sheet – talk to me!"

"Buquet," Kayla said numbly. "His neck snapped." Her stomach churned in protest. "It's my fault." Jamie held her upright as she swayed.

"You need air," he stated firmly. "You look like you're going to be sick. Go up to the roof; there's a door on the third balcony. Take as long as you need, I'll handle the crew." Giving Kayla a gentle shove in the indicated direction, Jamie pretended not to hear her feeble protests. As he turned to go, he looked back. "It's not your fault," he told her resolutely. With that, he left to marshal the stagehands.

Kayla hurried as fast as her dizziness would allow to the roof. The air was refreshingly cold, and fluffy snowflakes were already forming dense drifts on the smooth, dark stone. Leaning over the raised edge of the rooftop, Kayla threw up over the side, hoping distantly that there were no unfortunate Parisians wandering the street below. She retched until there was nothing left in her stomach, which only amounted to the apple, the bun, and a lot of bile. Wiping her face with a handful of snow, and trying to rinse out her mouth with some ice, Kayla gripped the ledge with white knuckles. Tears left freezing trails down her cheeks, and she sobbed. A man was _dead_, and it was partially her fault.

Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs as she cried with shock, fear, and homesickness. Guilt was a factor as well; Kayla had no love whatsoever for Buquet, but casually contemplating someone's murder was quite a different thing from watching them die right in front of you.

She had progressed to deep, shuddering breaths when she heard the door open. _No! My mouth tastes like vomit, therefore I can't run into Raoul and Christine right now, much less interrupt the most romantic duet of all time!_ Her brain wailed. So she hid, darting behind a gigantic marble statue of a horse.

Unfortunately, someone else had had the exact same idea.

The pedestal on which the statue stood was high, just a touch taller than Kayla's height of 5'10. So when Kayla scuttled behind, and spun around to sneak a peek at the two lovebirds, her eyes met fabric – black, luxurious fabric. A little ways up, leather shone in the dim light – boots. Dropping to her knees, Kayla held her breath and crawled across the icy ground to a different statue, and hid behind it instead. So focused was she on staying out of sight of the Phantom that she was barely aware of Christine whining/singing to Raoul about how scared yet conflicted she was.

"_Christine_…"

The eerie whisper drifted enticingly through the wind and flurries of snow. Kayla, who could see the source, noticed that the Phantom's mouth barely moved, though the name sailed audibly around the rooftop. Christine and Kayla seemed to be the only ones to hear the call. The Vicomte was certainly oblivious, and approached Christine with the confident air of a problem solver. Christine stared up at her childhood friend with doe brown eyes as round as saucers.

Listening to Raoul serenade Christine with tender romantic promises made Kayla's throat constrict. It was all well and good to watch to interaction on a screen, snuggled up on the couch with Samantha, where crying was a requirement, but being an actual witness was uncomfortably intimate – an intrusion. Plus, Kayla knew if she made any noise whatsoever, Christine and Raoul might notice her presence, thus leading to awkward questions. Or better yet, the Phantom would discover her, and the evening would end with Kayla strung over the edge of the Opera Populaire like a criminal on the gallows. Neither were appealing options. So Kayla kept her mouth shut and blinked furiously against prickling tears.

"_Let me be your shelter,_

_Let me be your light!_

_You're safe – no one will find you, _

_Your fears are far behind you…"_

Even though Raoul's reassurances were adorable, the fact that Christine's greatest fear was actually right behind her made Kayla silently snicker. She snuck a glance at the fear in question. The ghostly menace was visibly pissed, his clenched fists and heaving chest becoming very defined pieces of his dark silhouette.

"_All I want is freedom,_

_A world with no more night_…"

Christine's voice was tragically sad, as if having two men longing for her was the ultimate suffering, and as if the Ghost had been plaguing her entire life. Kayla had to shove her fist in her mouth to keep from bursting from her hiding place and screaming, "It's been a day! A DAY!"

When Christine wished for "_no more night_", the Phantom looked startled. In Kayla's mind, a mini Opera Ghost was running rampant. "_Whadya mean, no more night!_" Mini-Erik wailed. "_I wrote you a love song about the night, and you liked it! Why the flying cuss did you act like you wanted to sleep with me if you hated it?! What the hell is wrong with you, Christine?!_"

The young soprano sang on, blissfully unaware that a figment of Kayla's imagination was sassing her. "_And you, always beside me, to hold me and to hide me…_"

Raoul was grinning like he won the lottery.

"_Then say you'll share with me_

_One love, one lifetime_

_Say the word, and I will follow you;_

_Say you need me with you now and always_

_Anywhere you go, let me go too._

_Christine, that's all I ask of you_…"

Even though she could fault him for eternity on his impeccably poor timing, Kayla was still deeply impressed by the quality of Raoul's proposal – sweet, subtle, and lovely, yet not so cryptic as to make his intentions a mystery. Oh, Raoul de Chagny, no wonder women love you, Kayla thought dreamily. Christine's eyes lit up, and she moved closer to Raoul, tossing the Angel's rose to the ground, much to Kayla's displeasure.

Christine musically accepted the proposal, and after a minute more of duet, they started kissing. Granted, the Vicomte and the soprano were not privy to the fact that they had an audience, but the impromptu make-out happened so suddenly that Kayla had no time whatsoever to shut her eyes and give them some privacy. And now that she was watching, the romantic portion of her brain had absolutely no intention of looking away. Her inner commentary was alternating between squeals of delight – the majority – about how adorable it all was, and shrieks of "EEW I'm pretty sure that was tongue…" But when Raoul picked Christine up by the waist and spun her through the air, both parties of her mind were in complete agreement: spinning while kissing was flawlessly romantic.

As they drew apart, Christine smiled up at her new fiancé and regretfully sighed, "_I must go; they will wonder where I am_."

Raoul nodded and led her towards the door. "_Christine, I love you_."

Christine took his hand and skipped up the steps. "_Order your fine horses; be with them at the door!_"

"_And soon, you'll be beside me." _

"_You'll hold me and you'll hide me_."

And off the two lovebirds flew, back to the theatre, and probably the performance. A performance Kayla would not live to see if the Phantom saw her.

Silence reigned for about thirty seconds as Kayla and the Phantom both stared at the crimson rose lying bruised and abandoned in the white snow. The Phantom sprang lightly off the pedestal of the statue and walked slowly to his fallen gift. Kneeling down on the icy stones, he picked up the flower, cradling it gently in his gloved hands.

"_I gave you my music,_

_Made your song take wing;_

_And now, how you've repaid me,_

_Denied me and betrayed me_…"

His voice was shaking and miserable, and Kayla could not blame him; he had just been stabbed in the back by the one he held most dear. Gazing at the rose in despair, he stroked the petals and sang, "_He was bound to love you, when he heard you sing! Christine_…" He broke down and cried, clutching the flower to his lips as his shoulders shook. Kayla's face was immediately awash with tears, rivulets of frozen water crossing her cheeks like war paint.

And just to add insult to injury, an echo of Christine and Raoul's duet drifted on the breeze.

"_Say you'll share with me_

_One love, one lifetime;_

_Say the word, and I will follow you._

_Say you'll be with me each night, each morning_…"

As he listened to the ghostly reprise, the Phantom's shoulders tensed. His breathing became heavy and erratic, and he crumbled the already beaten-up rose in a shaking fist, pieces of scarlet and viridian floating to join the snow. Majestically rising to his feet, the Opera Ghost sprinted forward and climbed the statue that presided over the corner of the rooftop. His black cape billowing, the Phantom tossed back his head and sang his fury into the starry night.

"_You will curse the day you did not do, _

_All that the Phantom asked of you_!"

He held the final note for a long time before lowering his head and tightening his grasp on the magnificent stone wings of his perch, as if attempting to break the rock.

Kayla was still silently crying and shivering with cold in the shadows. "And he didn't ask you for much Christine, you conniving little tart," Kayla thought sourly, feeling desperate sympathy for the Opera Ghost. Unfortunately, he subconscious decided that the recipient of her support should be made aware, and thus Kayla had no idea that she had spoken aloud until there was an entirely unexpected response.

Firstly, the Phantom chuckled, shaking his head and staring down at the street below as if considering hurling himself off. Second, he straightened up and turned, realizing that the "tart" comment had not been part of his internal monologue. Coming to the exact same conclusion a few feet away, Kayla swore out loud in French before barrelling out from behind the statue and racing to the door. The girl sprinted down the stairs and did not stop until she reached the level of the stage.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Y'all know the drill, review or PM with any questions, comments, or critiques! Thanks for reading, and for all those who have favorited, followed, or reviewed! You all rock!<strong>

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera.**

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><p><span>15<span>

Back on the rooftop, the Phantom whipped around just in time to see the terrified teen dart out from behind a statue and whisk back into the opera house, her ashy blonde ponytail bouncing off the back of her blue shirt.

_Mademoiselle Abbots_, his memory reminded him. The girl whom he had saved from Buquet. Also the girl who he had seen gesturing dramatically along to his admonishments when he spoke from behind the chandelier. Her rose lips had perfectly copied his warnings, even though he knew that there was no way she could have seen him, let alone have known what he was planning to say.

She had seen him. She had watched him weep for his love's betrayal, witnessed him losing control and screaming his challenge at the stars. And she had called Christine a tart. Even in his anguish, the Phantom could not help but laugh at her choice of words. How accurate: an angel turned tart and that ridiculous fop of a Vicomte – a match made in heaven. Or in hell.

But the fact remained that young Ms. Abbots knew more than was wise. Down in his lair at that very moment was her sketchbook, lying open on his desk, open to an eerily detailed portrait of his deformed yet smiling face. The matter of the hanging was also troubling; she had seemed horrified when Buquet had died, but not surprised. And though she knew he was a murderer, she had not told anyone. The Phantom sighed and rubbed his forehead. His experience told him not to trust her, but his intuition told him otherwise. Whatever the case, he decided, young Abbots would make a much better set manager than that fool Buquet.

**Author's Note: I know, that was short, but I won't leave you lovelies hanging for long. Thanks for everyone who has favourited, followed, or reviewed, and a special little acknowledgement to Scarlet, Paula, and E-man-dy-s who guest reviewed. Get accounts you three! ;) Anyway, feel free to drop me a line and review or PM with questions, comments, and critiques. **

**Thanks all!**

**Tierney **


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: If I suddenly, inexplicably became the owner of Phantom of the Opera, I feel like there would be some sort of media riot. As that has not happened, you can all assume it still belongs to Webber, Leroux, and others. **

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><p><span>16<span>

Kayla raced through the labyrinth of the backstage like a bat out of hell. _He saw you_! Her subconscious screeched. _He knows who you are and you won't live past dawn_!

So preoccupied was she with trying to shut up her internal monologue that she did not notice Jamie until she barrelled straight into his chest. "Oomph!" she grunted as she landed hard on the ground.

"What on earth are you running from, Abbots?" Jamie chuckled, extending a calloused hand to help her to her feet. "You look like the Phantom's on your tail!"

Forcing a laugh, Kayla replied, "Me? No, I'd assume he'd be more interested in the cast than the crew. But then again, he did just kill Buquet…"

Jamie let out a genuine peal of laughter. "Our fantôme is more merciful than I thought!" He grinned at Kayla, his brown eyes searching hers. "Are you alright? You're quite pale."

This time, Kayla's chuckle was genuine. "Yes Jamie; all the blood just rushed out of my face because I have come to the conclusion that you are an incredibly morbid individual."

"I'm flattered," Jamie exclaimed.

"That was not my intention," Kayla returned with mock-severity.

"Glad to hear it," Jamie stated solemnly, his lips twitching. "By the way," he added, fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket. "I'm glad to see you aren't as hard hearted as I am," he finished, gently wiping off the melting tears with the square of fabric before dabbing at the corners of her mouth.

Kayla was mortified. "I thought I had got all that off," she spluttered. "Oh, this is awful, your handkerchief…"

Jamie smirked at her. "It is a gentleman's duty," he proclaimed, rolling up the cloth and returning it to his pocket.

Kayla buried her face in her hands. "That's embarrassing," she squeaked. "But thank you, I guess."

"Anytime," Jamie interjected smoothly.

It was at this moment that Clemens interrupted. "If you would please refrain from monopolizing our new manager, Blanchard," he called out as he approached. "We're going to be interrogated in about ten minutes."

Kayla furrowed her brows at him confusedly, at which he shrugged. "The managers sent messengers to the police, and there's an investigation happening. They won't find anything, obviously, but they want to talk to the set crew specifically. They've already taken the body away and all that."

Kayla's mouth went dry. Attempting to ignore the sense of impending doom, she clarified, "So, the show's over, then?"

"Yes," Germaine answered as he too joined them. "The audience is leaving, and getting refunds… Firmin seemed pretty mad about it."

Kayla sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Are we doing a show tomorrow?"

"Yes," Clemens answered. "We're doing two weeks of Il Muto, so thirteen more shows, not counting this one."

"What day is it?" Kayla wondered.

"September 30th," Jamie snickered.

Germaine glared at him. "The poor girl's in shock, I don't blame her for not remembering the date," he rebuked. "Shut up, Blanchard."

While Germaine chewed out Jamie, Kayla quickly formulated a mental timeline. If the failed Il Muto show was on September 30th, the "three months of Elysian peace" would take them all the way to New Year's Eve: the Masquerade. _I'm going to have to stay in a movieverse France for three whole months?!_ Her mind screamed.

"What do you want us to do?"

Kayla looked up to all three men staring at her concernedly. Taking a deep breath, Kayla asked, "Do the cops want to see the stage?"

Clemens shrugged again. "I doubt it."

"Well, Sherlock Holmes would be pissed about this, but let's set up the stage for Act One Scene One again," Kayla concluded.

"Who's Sherlock Holmes?" Clemens pondered, sounding slightly jealous.

"He's a British detective," Kayla laughed. "Incredibly intelligent, and eccentric… handsome, too," she added teasingly.

Clemens and Jamie both glowered, though Jamie's looked exaggerated. When she grinned at them, they both winked. "Well, I've given my orders, let's get the others and set up the stage!" Kayla crowed.

Clemens whistled and the rest of the younger boys ran over, the older men following more sedately. "We're setting up for the first scene of the first act, so we'll need the bedroom walls and bed back out. Let's get this done, because according to Clemens, the police want to talk to us," Kayla instructed. The other crew members were not shocked by the news, and the younger men saluted before scurrying off to find the pieces.

Tapping her shoulder, Clemens leaned over and spoke in Kayla's ear. "Don't worry about the questioning, we already have an alibi; the whole crew's in on it," he whispered urgently. "Just go along with everything and anything we say and you'll be fine."

"Will it be sexist?" Kayla muttered.

"Possibly," Clemens breathed.

Kayla pursued her lips, but nodded in agreement. "Alright, then," she conceded. Clemens smiled, clapped her shoulder, and hurried off.

"How sexist is the alibi, exactly?" Kayla hissed to Jamie as they dragged a bedroom wall onto the stage.

"It's playing off your girliness, so fairly sexist, I suppose," Jamie said breezily.

"As long as it doesn't make the managers think I'm a slut," Kayla growled, the muscles in her arms burning as she held the set piece upright.

"We're your friends. We don't want you fired," Jamie insisted. "We would never imply anything like that."

"Promise?" Kayla knew she sounded childish, but if she was going to have to live here for three months, she could not have any threat to her job. Because if she lost this job, she was screwed.

"Promise," Jamie agreed gently. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Thus Kayla was reassured, and had "Cross My Heart" playing on endless loop in her head for the next ten minutes of set up.

* * *

><p>"Mademoiselle Abbots?" The voice of Gilles Andre prodded past the mental barricade of Marianas Trench lyrics.<p>

Kayla turned from fluffing up the coverlet of the enormous bed, and the music in her mind dissipated. "Yes, Monsieur Andre?" she responded as calmly as she could manage.

"If you could please gather your crew and follow me, the police would like to speak with you now," Andre told her with a reassuring smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

Her empty stomach launched into an Olympic gymnastics routine. Nodding tensely, she signalled Jamie, who punched Clemens's arm before notifying the others.

The set crew trooped after Andre to the managers' office. Kayla felt she was heading off to her execution. The other teens, on the other hand, were strangely amused, chuckling and shooting each other knowing looks as they strutted down the hallway. Even the older men such as Germaine were cracking smiles.

Kayla's nervousness was increasing exponentially. If it was discovered that she had been the only person who had been on the catwalk with Buquet, she would get arrested, no questions asked.

When the door of the office came into sight, there was a stampede to reach it first. Clemens, who won the brawl that followed, blocked the doorway so Andre and Kayla could enter first.

The two officers turned their heads as the group walked in, and rose from their seats when they saw Kayla. Kayla inwardly cheered; respect for women was apparently a thing here.

"Monsieurs, mademoiselle," the first officer greeted with a small bow. "We would like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, sirs," Kayla lied politely. As Andre moved away to stand next to Firmin, Kayla sensed a warm presence at her back, and knew that Jamie was standing with her. It was a comforting thought.

"As you all are aware, Joseph Buquet was hanged this evening at approximately nine 'o'clock," the second officer explained pompously.

"We don't have any ideas as to who was responsible," the first policeman added, sounding much friendlier than his fellow cop. "As you were his colleagues, we hoped you could provide us with more information."

"Well, he was utterly rat-arsed a lot of the time, begging your pardon, sirs," Rene drawled while the others snickered into their hands.

"This is no laughing matter!" the more serious official snarled.

His companion chuckled. "So I am to assume he drank frequently, then?" he commented, jotting down the fact in a small notebook.

"Drank like a fish, he did," confirmed Germaine, while his fellows nodded approvingly. "Though he was an ill-tempered man whether he had liquor in him or not."

"His drinking has no bearing on the information we want!" the severe officer barked. "Do you know of anyone who has threatened to kill Joseph Buquet?"

Kayla could literally feel the subtle sideways glances of the set crew boring holes through her skull. "No!" they all chorused.

"Can you think of anyone who would benefit from Buquet's death?" Again, the peripherals of every stagehand in the room were fixed on Kayla, but again, the question was denied.

"Well, Firmin and I were planning on firing Buquet, and Ms. Abbots was our first choice for his position," Andre piped up. The second policeman looked like he had won the lottery.

Apparently sensing the terror coursing through Kayla's body, Jamie placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and cut in. "I beg your pardon, monsieur, but if you are implying that Mademoiselle Abbots was involved in the death of Buquet, I can assure you she was not."

"Is that so?" the second officer asked snidely.

"She fainted!" The chirp came from Baptiste, who, at fourteen, was the youngest member of the set crew. His fellow workers swivelled around, glaring at him. The skinny boy shrank into the collar of his hunter green work shirt, abashed.

"And why was that?" the kinder policeman addressed Baptiste, who looked to his teammates. The other teenagers gave Baptiste a synchronized look that clearly stated, _you are __welcome__ to try to dig yourself out of this one_.

Baptiste blushed and stammered, "After Signora Giudicelli left, sir, Mademoiselle Abbots came down from the catwalk, and she looked pretty dizzy. She was having trouble walking properly."

"And then she almost fell down a flight of stairs," interjected Rene, taking pity on the fourteen-year-old. The sixteen-year-old's comment caused half the crew to cough into their handkerchiefs, probably to hide their snickers.

"She was unconscious," Clemens carried on gravely. "So Marius and I carried her up to the roof."

Marius nodded. "We thought the cold would wake her," the seventeen-year-old added, "which it did."

"I asked her some questions when she came around, and as far as I could determine she fainted because she hasn't eaten for two days," Clemens stated, glowering at the two managers.

Marius, taking over the narrative, continued, "When we went back inside, we heard screaming, and Buquet's body was lying on the stage."

Kayla's head throbbed and she winced. Jamie looped an arm around her waist to support her, and said loudly, "Really, if anyone should be investigated, it's Buquet; he tried to kill her during Hannibal last night."

Both officers and managers looked horrified. "What? How?" Firmin spluttered. Andre's jovial face was grim.

"We were discussing when a certain piece had to be dropped, we disagreed on the timing, and he tried to backhand me off the catwalk," Kayla summarized weakly.

Jamie wiped off a section of her foundation with a corner of his handkerchief, displaying the vibrant purple-green bruise as evidence.

The first officer sighed and shut his notebook. "Thank you for your assistance," he began formally. "But I believe this case will be classified as Monsieur Firmin described: simply an accident."

The other cop looked like he wanted to interrupt, but a sharp glance from his partner silenced him. Inside, Kayla cheered. At least now, she wasn't going to be arrested.

"Do you have anyone who could confirm your alibi?" the officer mentioned, apparently as an afterthought.

"Madame Giry," Marius offered.

"Are we done here?" Jamie demanded, holding Kayla steady as the girl's vision suddenly blurred. "Need I remind you, Ms. Abbots still has not has a decent meal."

"Yes, of course," the officer allowed. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen and lady."

The managers looked relieved. "Performances will resume as normal tomorrow," Firmin stated. "We will let you know if there are rehearsals sometime in the morning."

"Yes sir," Kayla nodded politely, gripping Jamie's arm.

"You are all free to go," Andre smiled, gesturing at the door.

"Merci," Baptiste squeaked.

With that, the stage crew waltzed out of the office, with Jamie and Kayla leading the way.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Here you are, a bonus chapter for being such good readers. I wasn't going to post two today, but I felt bad with the last chapter being so short. I'm having a busy time of it, what with coaching a team at my old high school and trying to arrange missing lectures, and the possibility of failing my Spanish course looming over my head, due to the fact that the woman running the course has never taught a class in her life and is quite frankly a mediocre teacher. So yah, I'm a little wound up, so apologies for the rant.<strong>

**Y'all know the drill; read, review or PM with questions, comments, or critiques, follow, favourite, enjoy... whatever floats your boat. **

**Thanks! **

**Tierney **


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: It should come as not surprise to anyone that Webber, Leroux, and others are the proud owners of Phantom of the Opera**

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><p><span>17<span>

The procession moved steadily through the halls, down a narrow flight of stairs, and into a section of the opera house that Kayla did not recognize. In a dimly lit but cozy room filled with long wooden tables, Jamie sat Kayla down on a bench and whisked away. He returned balancing two bowls, a loaf of bread on a cutting board, and a wickedly sharp knife.

"Sebastian's still got bread in the oven, and a big pot of stew on the stove, so you lot go get your own!" he barked.

The rest of the stagehands hurried through another doorway, presumably into the kitchen. Jamie placed a bowl and a spoon in front of Kayla and began to slice up the steaming golden loaf. "Eat up, Abbots," he said encouragingly.

Kayla did not need to be told twice. Taking a scoop of food, she popped the spoon into her mouth, barely avoiding burning her tongue. The gravy was steaming hot and delicious, filled with tender pieces of beef, sweet slices of carrot, and thick, creamy slices of potato. Kayla was in heaven. "It's so good!" she mumbled through a full mouth. Jamie chuckled and handed her thick slice of baguette.

The rest of the crew returned soon after with their own bowls, and Germaine and Henri were juggling twenty one mugs and two bottles of wine in addition to their own food. Sliding their burdens down onto the table, Germaine arranged all the mugs on the wooden surface and neatly filled each with the maroon liquid. The alcohol was then distributed to the group.

Kayla hesitatingly picked up the small cup and looked up as Germaine cleared his throat. "I know that Buquet was not well loved by the Populaire, least of all by us," the fatherly man said slowly. "But for all his faults, he at least bothered to work hard. And his behaviour, though appalling, provided us with the change of management we so desperately needed." He raised his mug and nodded at Kayla. "To Abbots," he proposed. "And to an improved rest of the season."

"To Abbots!" the shout echoed around the room as the crew lifted their cups to toast their new manager. Kayla blushed and took a careful swig of wine as the other men drained their portions.

The wine was spicy and slightly bitter, burning the back of her throat. Swallowing quickly, she took another careful bite of stew. "Wine's not your thing?" Jamie smirked, leaning over to check the level of her drink. When Kayla shook her head, Jamie snatched up the mug. "Baptiste!" he called, preparing to slide the wine across the table.

Sticking out her hand to block the pass, Kayla queried, "What on earth are you doing?"

"Giving your wine to Baptiste; what does it look like I'm doing?" Jamie laughed.

Kayla shook her head vehemently. "He's fourteen, even one glass is too much," she insisted sternly. "Give it to one of the seniors; Claude, maybe." Shrugging, Jamie slid the mug over to Claude. The fifty-year-old toasted Kayla before downing the wine in one gulp.

"Aw, why couldn't Baptiste have it?" Clemens groaned, sticking his lip out at Kayla. "He's hilarious when he's tipsy!"

"Come on guys!" Kayla exclaimed exasperatedly. "Getting hammered is not going to make our jobs any easier."

"Hammered?" Baptiste repeated confusedly.

"Drunk," Kayla clarified. "We're the set crew of the Opera Populaire, one of the best operas in France, for heaven's sakes! It's an honour and a privilege, and without us, the show doesn't happen. It's a serious responsibility," she concluded. "And besides," she added. "Getting wasted is the ballet corps' area of expertise, not ours."

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the room was filled with laughter. Jamie threw back his head and howled at the ceiling. More than one person looked like they almost choked on a spoonful of stew before starting to laugh. Slamming his head down on the table, Clemens buried his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking. Rene and Marius toppled on the bench, and proceeded to roll around on the floor in hysterics. The other teenagers were all laughing so hard that they appeared to be having trouble breathing.

"Was that too far?" Kayla asked Germaine anxiously.

The older man just shook his head, his eyes twinkling merrily.

"Not at all," Claude wheezed, leaning across the table to speak to her. "That was very witty, and undeniably accurate."

"Except for the little girls," Jamie chimed in thoughtfully. "And Meg Giry. But besides that, they are wee drunks, aren't they?"

With that, the senior hands also broke down, roaring with hilarity and slapping each other on the back. "The dancers' job!" Henri choked, and everyone lost it again.

It took a very long time for them all to calm down enough to speak coherent sentences without giggling. Kayla's mood improved dramatically as the meal progressed; her stomach was full of food, her mind was energized by the comedic conversation, and her body felt very warm and comfortable.

Somewhere in the room, a clock chimed eleven. Kayla's eyes widened, and she quickly slurped up the remainder of her stew. "Okay, everyone, finish up and go get some rest," she suggested.

The teenagers immediately morphed into four year olds. "Aww! Why?" Rene whined.

"Don't be such a baby, Rene," Kayla grinned, moving to stand. "Even if the managers aren't freaked out enough to have an emergency rehearsal, I want our crew up early and rehearsing. _We_ have to be perfect, even if no one else is."

"It makes sense," Henri agreed, nodding. The other six over-thirty stagehands rose to their feet, prepared to comply with her request.

"When would you like to see us, Abbots?" Germaine inquired respectfully.

"Eight 'o' clock," Kayla decided. "We can meet on the stage, talk about how the day's going to work, go to breakfast, and then come back and set up."

"Just so ya know, lass, seating generally starts at eight," Claude mentioned. "The actual performance starts about half an hour after that."

"Thank you, Claude," Kayla acknowledged, smiling at him gratefully.

"I don't see why we have to go to bed," Clemens moaned.

Kayla immediately turned on him, but Baptiste reacted first. "She wants us to be awake again in nine hours!" the young boy drawled, putting his hands on his hips. "We need our rest if we want to pull off a stellar performance."

Clemens opened his mouth to retaliate, but quickly shut it again as he realized that he did not have a valid argument.

"Goodnight, gentlemen," Kayla yawned, brushing a few strands of blonde hair off her forehead. "I will see you all at eight."

She had walked all the way to the dorm before she realized that she had no idea how to get back to the dorm. Swivelling around, she marched back to the table. "I don't know how to get back to the dorm," she stated bluntly.

Jean, Dennis, Gaston, Leo, Antonio, and Julius immediately burst into laughter. Clemens, Andrew, Xavier, Rene, Marius, and Baptiste reacted oppositely, and glared at the amused young men.

"Sacre bleu; why _the hell_ is that funny?" Marius snarled. The six other boys stopped laughing instantly.

"Need I remind you, she was practically fainting when we came down here?" Baptiste screeched.

"She hasn't eaten for two days, you bastards!" Andrew spat.

Kayla held up her hands. "Whoa now, calm down, boys," she coaxed. "I don't mind, and it honestly is funny that I still don't know my way around. No need for coronaries and hyperbole on my account."

The insults stopped, but the death glares did not. There was a period of silence in which the young stage hands on either side of the table stared each other down. The seniors and Jamie, the neutral party, watched with smiles playing about their lips. "Apologize to the lady," Clemens growled dangerously.

"Sorry, Abbots," the six culprits mumbled, shamefaced.

"Don't worry about it, guys; it's fine," Kayla brushed it off good naturedly. "But it still doesn't solve the problem that I want to go to bed and have no idea how to get there. Would someone mind showing me the way back?"

Jamie bounded up like the bench was on fire. "I will, my lady," he volunteered, pretending to be overly excited. He skipped over to her and held out his arm, which Kayla graciously accepted.

As Jamie escorted her through the darkening hallways, he pointed out landmarks that could help her find her way, and supplied a constant stream of information concerning which halls led where, the purposes of the different levels, and which sections of the building to avoid. It was all very helpful, and Kayla hoped she would remember it all.

"Here we are!" Jamie announced grandly, sweeping his arm towards the dormitory door as they traversed down the hall towards it.

"Thank you, sir," Kayla simpered, dropping into a curtsey.

"It was my pleasure, my lady," Jamie assured proudly.

The two stared at each other in complete silence for about three seconds before they both cracked up. As they stood there snickering at their own antics, the door swung open and Meg Giry stuck her head out. "Kayla! There you are!" the golden-haired dancer exclaimed. "I couldn't find you after the performance, and Maman and I were getting worried!"

Jamie turned to Kayla with a disappointed look on his face. "She's allowed to call you by your first name and I can't?" he pouted.

"Man up, Blanchard," Kayla teased, shoving him with her shoulder. "It's a right you'll have to earn."

"Very well," Jamie sighed. "Goodnight Abbots, goodnight Mademoiselle Giry." Grinning cheekily, he strutted back down the hall.

"Go to bed and make the rest of the crew go too, Jamie!" Kayla yowled after him. The chestnut haired stagehand waved to show he had heard before turning a corner and disappearing from view.

When Kayla turned back to Meg, the ballerina was watching her with a look of concern. "Are you alright?" Meg asked. "I heard you got questioned by the police."

Kayla shrugged. "It wasn't a big deal," she explained, following Meg into the dorm. As soon as she was fully through the door, she got swarmed.

The young ballerinas were in a frenzy of panic. There were fifteen so-dubbed "ballet rats", all of whom had been in the audience of Kayla's rendition of Beauty and the Beast. "We were so scared!" one of them shrieked, wrapping her pale, skinny arms around Kayla's waist. "We thought la fantôme had gotten you!"

"I'm okay, I'm okay," Kayla assured, giving the young girl a squeeze.

"If le fantôme had gotten you, we would never hear the end of the story!" another squeaked.

"LENA!" the others admonished loudly, turning on her and ignoring the hisses from the older dancers in the room.

"But I am okay, and you will hear the rest of the story," Kayla intervened, chuckling at their attitudes. "Just not right now; it's late, and you ladies should be sleeping… as should I."

"Will you tell us the rest tomorrow?" a third inquired.

Kayla grinned and nodded, and, squealing, the young ballerinas scuttled off to their beds.

Meg showed her the way to a bathroom so Kayla could brush her teeth, and thanks to her handy-dandy bag of modern convenience, Kayla was able to. The bathroom was nowhere near as primitive as she was expecting, which was a relief. When she returned from her sojourn in the restroom, many of the candles and gas lanterns had already been extinguished.

Cautiously navigating the dusky rows of beds, she made her way to the nook under one of the round windows, which her and Meg's beds occupied. A pale beam of moonlight illuminated a sharp dark shape resting on her pillow. Moving as quietly as she could as to not disturb anyone, Kayla snatched up the object. It was her sketchbook. She hugged it to her chest before setting it down so she could change.

Once she was attired in her nightgown, and her bag and clothes were safely stowed in her trunk, Kayla slid under the covers and leaned against the headboard, relying on the moon for light as she gingerly opened the sketchbook. Nothing seemed to be missing or out of place. When she flipped to the drawing of unmasked Erik, a white envelope dropped out from between the pages.

Kayla eyed it dubiously_. A declaration of war, no doubt_, her thoughts whispered darkly. There was no denying it now; the Phantom of the flipping Opera had been through her sketchbook, and he had seen all of her artwork, including his own face. She was so screwed.

The wax seal had been slightly squished by the covers of the book, giving the red skull a distorted, comical appearance. Flipping it over, she read the sharp, ornate cursive that graced the front:

_Mademoiselle Abbots_

There was no allowance of even a molecule of doubt. Snorting, Kayla ran her nail under the wax edge and pulled open the envelope. Kayla held the fancy stationary up to the light, squinting at the black ink.

_Mademoiselle Abbots,_

_Congratulations on being the only individual in the Opera Populaire to adequately follow my orders this evening. Continue to do so and you will have nothing to fear._

_Await further instructions._

_Your faithful patron,_

_O.G._

Kayla scowled. There was no reason for him to be so cryptic. Further instructions? Why on earth would she need further instructions? After checking the back of the page, which was annoyingly blank, Kayla returned the note to the envelope and stuck it back into her sketchbook. Returning the sketchbook to her trunk and grabbing her phone and ear buds, Kayla jumped back into the mercifully warm bed and quickly scrolled through her music to set an alarm. Placing one silent bud in her ear, she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I know, only one chapter today, but if it's any encouragement, there's a 75% chance that I'll double post next week. My classes are totally hectic at the moment, but on the bright side I only have a little over a week of lectures to go. Anyway, thanks for reading, and review, PM, favourite, follow, etc. if the mood strikes you. You guys are awesome. <strong>

**Thanks!**

**Tierney**


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Leroux, Webber, and others. **

* * *

><p><span>18<span>

There was no such peacefulness deep within the catacombs of the opera.

Certainly, the Phantom's lair was perfectly quiet, but the serenity of the caves did not reflect the state of the Phantom's mind. The Opera Ghost's thoughts were in utter turmoil. He sat at his desk, staring at the model of Il Muto, his anger escalating no matter how hard he tried to stay calm.

Betrayal! How he despised the word. He had not believed Christine to be capable of inflicting such a wound. Fault lay with the Vicomte also; what right had that ridiculous boy to take his angel of music? Seething with fury, he grabbed a ceramic paperweight off the desk and hurled it at the stone wall. The smash of the shattered pieces hitting the stone floor was fairly therapeutic. Fingering the lasso tied to his belt, the Phantom lamented that he no longer had a readily expendable employee of the Opera Populaire; at this point the only thing capable of distracting him would be murder.

Pushing the chair back, he stomped over to the organ and sat down. Running his hands over the ivory keys, the Phantom willed himself to play, to compose, to channel his rage into his masterpiece. He shut his eyes and lightly pressed the keys. About a minute in, he realized that he was not playing Don Juan Triumphant, but the soft, simple chords of the song that Ms. Abbots had so mysteriously produced on the stage that morning. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Abbots. He mulled the name over in his mind as his fingers coaxed the bittersweet notes from the organ. The girl was a mystery, never fully explained. He did not even know her given name, and he had far too many questions to count. How on earth had she convinced the managers to hire her so quickly? Granted, her work was so efficient that he had no complaints, but where had she come from? A young lady working in the set crew was a phenomenon that the Phantom had neither seen nor heard of before. What qualified her to do manual labour rather than perform? Why had she been able to mimic his speech before the words had even crossed his lips? And most disturbingly, why was his face in her sketchbook? Not once, but multiple times his image had appeared in the creamy white pages.

When he had seen the image of himself unmasked, his first instinct had been to tear out the page and destroy it. To tear it up, to set it on fire, anything that would erase all evidence of its existence. But the workmanship stayed his hand.

The drawing was in colour, and accurate enough to be a photograph. Every detail of his face had been carefully captured, and the proportions were practically perfect. But his likeness was smiling, grinning at something the viewer could not see. The image had looked so happy that the Phantom had stared at the coloured drawing for many minutes before turning the page to an even stranger picture – him, with arm around Christine, standing with Raoul de Chagny and an older gentleman whom the Phantom did not recognize. The black and white figures smiled at the Phantom from within the page.

The representations of him were so oddly intriguing that the Phantom was hard pressed to be angry, and they were so beautifully drawn that he could not bring himself to destroy them. Leaning back in his chair, the Phantom considered the sketchbook thoughtfully. She was a very skilled artist, and evidently a hard worker, and though she knew who he truly was, he could not afford to get rid of her. So he had simply returned the sketchbook to the empty dorm before going to interrupt the performance.

Now, as he recalled all this, he realized that the situation could work to his advantage. A very faithful assistant could be created if he played this right. Her art skills and her background role in the opera could be just what he needed…

"Erik?"

The Phantom lazily turned his head and saw Madame Giry standing next to one of the secret passages. The ballet mistress was staring at him intently, her hands on her hips. "Antoinette!" the man greeted, sitting up and folding his hands casually behind his head. "How lovely of you to visit! You enjoyed the performance, I trust?"

His friend shuddered at the morbidity of his statement before she replied. "God knows we needed to be rid of Buquet, but could you not have disposed of him without scaring my dancers half to death?"

"They were frightened," the Phantom mused. "Good."

"They were more frightened for Mademoiselle Abbots' safety than of Buquet's corpse," Madame Giry corrected, rolling her eyes at his pleased look.

"Ah, yes, how is Mademoiselle Abbots?" the Phantom sneered. "Safe, I presume?"

"Surprisingly calm, after a shock like that," Madame Giry admonished. "She thinks you want to kill her."

"Why _in hell_ would I want to kill a young girl?" he growled, disgusted with the very idea.

"Maybe because she knows too much," Madame Giry shrugged, not meeting his eyes.

"Because she has somehow seen my face?" he demanded. "And she knows it so well that she has multiple drawings of it?"

Madame Giry stayed silent.

"She tried to talk to me, Antoinette," Erik continued. "When I stopped her from falling last night, and this morning in the theatre, she knew I was there. Strange, isn't it? She seemed to sense exactly where I was. Who is she, Antoinette, and why does she know so much?"

"You have to promise you will not harm her," Madame Giry insisted.

Erik glared at her. "I already stated I do not murder little girls," he hissed. "Now, who is she?"

Madame Giry bit her lip. "She is Canadian," she began simply. "But from a different time, and apparently a different world."

"What?" Erik spat.

"All of this, this opera house, this… story, she calls it, is a legend where she comes from," the ballet mistress explained haltingly.

Erik rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What kind of evidence does she have to prove this?" he asked tiredly.

"She knows how we met and what I saved you from," Madame Giry listed. "She told me all about the caravan and the gypsies, and that you live under the opera house. She understands that you should be treated with extreme caution; you should see the trouble she takes to do everything perfectly."

"An intelligent girl," Erik commented. "Unlike the majority of your corps. Anything else?"

Madame Giry smiled, ignoring the barb against her dancers. "She described your mask – white porcelain worn on the right side – and informed me that the opera you are writing is titled Don Juan Triumphant. That is correct, is it not?"

Erik nodded mutely. He had told no one the name of his masterpiece.

"And she believes, and I quote, 'he is a genius in every sense of the word, he loves box five for some reason, and he dresses with more class than any man I have ever seen'. And though she has evidently seen your deformity, she told me she thought you quite handsome." The ballet mistress grinned at Erik's perplexed expression. "She was also aware that you take the role of an Angel of Music and that you are teaching Christine…"

As the final word crossed Madame Giry's lips, Erik picked a candlestick off the top of the organ and hurled it at the wall. It hit the floor with a satisfying metallic clang.

"What happened, Erik?" Madame Giry sighed.

"Do not speak of _her_," Erik snarled, tightening his hands into fists to keep from slamming the keys of the organ.

For a long moment neither of them spoke. "What are your intentions for Kayla?" Madame Giry asked tentatively.

"Kayla… so that is her name," Erik mused. After another pregnant pause, he replied, "I will busy composing, so I plan to have Ms. Abbots create the set book for me. Besides that, she will manage the backstage as per her current occupation."

"Why?"

"I need to focus on my music," Erik murmured distractedly. "Ms. Abbots will draw according to my exact instructions, and no one shall be any the wiser that it was created by her and not me."

"You never did like to be dependent on anyone," Madame Giry ventured. "Why the change?"

"Curiosity," Erik said ruefully. "I have viewed her art, and I want to see what young Ms. Abbots is truly capable of."

"Well, she will be relieved that you do not want to kill her," Madame Giry laughed, turning to leave. "Goodnight, Erik."

"Excluding you and I, she is the one with the least to fear. Sleep well, Antoinette."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: A bonus chapter for all of you awesome people! Do not fear, there shall still be an additional chapter up tomorrow. Just thought I might as well post a chapter today since I had a minute and - pause for dramatic effect - my classes end this week! Plus since it's December I'm super excited for break and Christmas and all that jazz, so maybe that Christmas spirit will lead to some bonus chapters for you, who knows. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favourited, or followed, and please feel free to continue doing so. <strong>

**And just a response to my two guest reviewers, since I can't PM you guys:**

**E-man-dy-S: You are very welcome. Hope you enjoyed this one!**

**Guest: Yes, the matter of Kayla's phone being fully charged at all times... Let's just say her phone is going to remain in power stasis until she returns home. Or it's magical. Whichever explanation suits you. :)**

**So, one final question: I need ideas for how I should fill up the time during the "three months of Elysian peace". Three months is a huge amount of time to cover, so I'd appreciate input. Review or PM with ideas!**

**Thank you all so much!**

**Tierney **


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Leroux, Webber, etc. Not me. Nor do I own Vertigo by U2 or The Importance of Being Ernest. **

* * *

><p><span>19<span>

Kayla's alarm went off at seven fifteen sharp.

"_Lights go down, it's dark, the music in your head can't rule you heart…_"

Kayla woke up to U2 in her ears and a pounding in her head. _And this_, she thought contritely, _is why I don't drink_. Apparently even half a glass of wine was enough to give her a small hangover, but the headache could have been a result of the stress of the past two days.

Unwinding herself from the duvet, Kayla clambered out of bed, an action she immediately regretted. The floor was ice on her bare feet, and the air was freezing. Outside, snowflakes danced on the wind.

Gathering up her bag and a bundle of clothes, Kayla tiptoed to the bathroom where she brushed her teeth and, much to her delight, took a bath in the old style tub, washing her hair with the lavender shampoo provided by her marvelous bag of modern convenience. Kayla vowed never to take such luxuries for granted again. She dressed quickly, once again in the standard blue shirt, black pants, vest, and boots. The ruby pendant was warm against her skin.

She snuck back into the dorm once more to return her sleep clothes to her trunk and to make her bed. Leaving her bag and sketchbook locked away, Kayla struck her phone into her vest pocket before heading off to the stage.

"_I can feel the beast, wrestling for a check; girl with crimson nails has Jesus round her neck, swinging to the music, swinging to the music…"_

Bono sang on in her ears as Kayla navigated the winding halls. The stage was empty, the rest of the crew not yet present, but as it was only quarter to eight, this was easily forgiven. She plopped down on the edge of the fluffy Il Muto bed and lay back, her slightly damp hair cool against the back of her neck. Kayla found herself envying the actors; this bed was comfy. Arching her back in a stretch, Kayla gave a little sigh of contentment. As much as she was concerned with how this adventure was impacting her "real" life, she felt more at home here than she would have expected. Back home, she would be missing classes, unless, of course, time worked differently here… in which case, her entire family could be dead by the time she popped back to the modern world. To which she would say brav-freaking-o.

Kayla sternly halted that train of thought, as her main concern at this point was supposed to be not pissing off the Opera Ghost, therefore staying alive long enough to actually get home. She could worry about time continuity later.

The mattress bounced, and Jamie's beaming face appeared above her own. "Good morning, ma chérie," Jamie smirked.

Kayla shoved his shoulder, and the stagehand toppled off the bed with a loud thunk. "Surname only, Blanchard!" Kayla crowed.

Jamie stuck his tongue out at her before clambering back up onto the bed and perching next to her.

"Where is everyone?" Kayla questioned, surreptitiously turning off her phone and sticking it and her headphones back into the pocket.

Jamie tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the frescoed ceiling. "The over-thirties are up and on their way," he recited. "The rest of them are in various stages of crawling out of bed, and when I left, Jean and Xavier were having a row."

Kayla bolted upright. "What? Why?" she spluttered.

Jamie grinned up at her. "Over whether you were prettier than Christine, of course," he explained smugly. "Jean was in favour of Christine, but Xavier disagreed."

Kayla's cheeks matched the colour of her necklace. "Why the hell would they bother rowing over that?" she asked sceptically.

"There've been two camps since you were hired," Jamie clarified.

"Team Daäe and Team Abbots?" Kayla suggested sarcastically. To her surprise, Jamie nodded.

"The over thirties are remaining uninvolved, but besides that, the two sides are even," Jamie stated, sitting up and stretching. "It's not that we don't all think you're pretty, because we all agree on that, it's more about comparison."

"What team are you on?" Kayla teased.

"Team Giry," Jamie said promptly.

Kayla laughed. "You're talking about Meg, right?"

Jamie's brown eyes bulged, and he also began to cackle. "Sacre bleu, it sounds so wrong when you say that!" he choked.

Thus, when the older stagehands arrived, they found Kayla and Jamie on the bed and floor respectively, rolling about in a fit of hysterical giggling.

"What did you say, Blanchard?" Claude accused menacingly, a twinkle in his dark eyes notifying Kayla that his ire was not serious.

"I was just telling her about the fight in the dorm," Jamie snickered.

Germaine rolled his eyes.

"If those boys focused as much on their jobs as they did on girls, we would be the greatest set crew in France," Henri stated amusedly.

"I thought we already were!" Jamie protested with a chuckle.

"The greatest set crew in the country? Don't be daft, boy," Claude drawled. "Working at the best opera house in France does not by any means make you the best."

"What's this about being the best?" Clemens' voice echoed ahead of him as he appeared in the wings.

"You're not the best!" Germaine barked. "That's the end of it!"

"Where is everyone else?" Kayla asked for the second time.

"They were right behind me," Clemens explained cheerfully, jerking his thumb back towards the hallway. True to his word, the other teens materialised moments later.

It took an additional three minutes before the final two stagehands, Xavier and Jean, arrived, out of breath and sporting brilliant black eyes. Neither of them could meet Kayla's gaze as she sat staring at them.

"I expected more from both of you," was her only remark before she turned away and addressed the rest of the crew. "Okay guys," she began, clapping her hands together. "Another performance of Il Muto tonight, seating starting at eight, so we should be entirely prepped by seven-thirty, tops. Do we know the cast list yet?"

"No, but whether Christine or la Carlotta is playing the Countess should not affect the quality of our work," Dennis replied strongly.

Kayla grinned and nodded approvingly. "Correct, thanks Dennis," she acknowledged.

The eighteen year old boy bowed. "My lady," he responded.

Marius snorted, and Dennis's friends immediately swivelled around to glare at him.

"Hearken to me!" Kayla snapped, waving her arms in the air. "The sooner we get our plan sorted, the sooner we can eat, so listen up!"

True to her expectations, the side interaction was put on hold and the entire crew faced her again, listening attentively. "Is there a planned rehearsal for today?" Kayla asked, looking to the seniors.

Germaine shrugged. "I have not seen the managers," he explained. "Regretfully, I have no more information."

Kayla pursed her lips and frowned, thinking.

"SACRE BLEU!" Clemens yelped, leaping backwards and holding his hand to his heart. "Abbots looks like Madame Giry!"

They all examined her face for about a minute before laughter ensued. "That she does!" Jamie gasped. Baptiste bent in half, leaning on his knees and wheezing. Kayla glowered, but her look only increased the volume of their hilarity.

"ENOUGH!" Claude finally roared, impatient with the pace of the meeting. The gruff shout succeeded in shutting everyone up, and attention once more returned to the new manager.

Clearing her throat, Kayla re-explained. "So, if there is a hastily scheduled rehearsal, I want us all in the wings fifteen minutes early if we can. If there's no rehearsal, I want us backstage at least an hour before we're supposed to be, and maybe after lunch we can do a little rehearsal of our own."

"It's settled, then," Clemens stated, clapping his hands together. "Let's go get breakfast."

With a loud cheer, the set crew bounded off stage, dragging Kayla along. And in the midst of nineteenth century teenagers, Kayla felt completely at home.

* * *

><p>"So everyone's just staring at the urn that Jack is carrying, and finally, Algernon stands up and walks over to look at it. His mind is totally racing, and he just improvises: 'Oh, I thought you would like my little joke! The old Ernest is dead, long live the new Ernest!' And then…" Kayla paused to take a deep, shuddering breath. "He taps his cigar ash into the urn!"<p>

Everyone at the breakfast table lost it. Jamie slammed his head repeatedly against the edge of the table, while Clemens howled up at the ceiling. Baptiste had rolled off the bench and was curled up in a ball of the floor. Dennis kneeled next to him, and both boys' eyes were streaming with tears of laughter. The other juniors were in similar states of hysterics, and the seniors were chuckling merrily.

The set crew was the only group currently in the dining hall, so there were no other witnesses to Kayla's recital. The cooks were probably hearing the boisterous laughter, but a few well-placed compliments from Kayla about the food of the previous evening had landed her in the centre of their good books, and Kayla knew they would not mind the noise.

"Please, please don't stop," Xavier pleaded with a groan.

"Don't stop what, may I ask?"

Madame Giry's stern accented voice reached their ears from the open door, where was she observing the chaos amusedly.

"I'm telling them a story, and they seem to be enjoying it," Kayla snickered, twisting around to face the older woman.

"Sit down for a spell, Antoinette!" Claude guffawed, patting the bench beside him. "Ms. Abbots is a fine storyteller!"

Madame Giry allowed a small smile to escape. "Unfortunately, I cannot," she replied. "I need Kayla to accompany me for a moment."

Kayla took a swig of water out of her mug and squinted at the ballet mistress. "Is there a rehearsal? Or some sort of costuming issue?" she guessed.

Madame Giry shook her head. "No, Kayla. The managers would like a word with you."

"Helvete," Kayla hissed under her breath. She rose to her feet, shoving the wooden bench backward. "Well, off I go to get fired, my friends!" she exclaimed cheerfully.

"Don't be silly!" Germaine laughed.

"I'm not so sure," Jamie deadpanned. "Abbots is quite the trouble maker."

"We'll miss you, Abbots!" Baptiste teased.

Kayla gave a sweeping bow. "Maybe I'll be back, maybe not, my lads," she proclaimed. "Best of luck to you all. Love you!"

The crew's cheering and catcalls followed Kayla and Madame Giry all the way out the door and into the hall. "What's this all about, then?" Kayla questioned as Madame Giry took the lead.

"I do not know," Madame Giry shrugged. "But the managers were quite insistent."

Kayla sighed. "I really am going to get fired, aren't I?" she moaned.

"I doubt _he_ would let that happen, my dear," Madame Giry assured quietly.

At the mention of the Phantom, Kayla stopped dead in her tracks. "Is this about the 'proposition' he has for me?" she groaned. "I got a note. Last night. And now I'm nervous. It was annoying."

"I doubt the managers would know about that," Madame Giry corrected. "But he is not going to let you leave this opera house until he puts whatever plans he has for you into motion."

"Wonderful," Kayla exclaimed sarcastically. She could not decide whether the knowledge that she was essentially trapped here at the Phantom's whim was reassuring or terrifying.

The pair walked in silence until they reached the managers' office. Andre answered their knock immediately. "Merci, madame," he thanked Madame Giry. "Please come in, mademoiselle." Madame Giry gave Kayla a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before walking away down the hall, leaving Kayla to enter the office alone.

Firmin was pacing nervously in front of the round window as Kayla and Andre walked further into the room. "Mademoiselle Abbots!" the manager greeted, hurrying forward to pull out a chair for her. "I hope we were not interrupting anything."

"Not at all," Kayla lied. "I was just arranging the schedule with the set crew."

Firmin sat down across the desk while Andre occupied the chair next to Kayla. Kayla positioned herself gingerly on the cushions. "There is a… task, of sorts, that we feel may require your expertise," Firmin ventured finally.

Kayla blinked. "So I'm not getting fired?" she blurted.

Andre let out a hearty peal of laughter. "Goodness, no!" he choked. "Get rid of the best set manager this opera house has ever had, don't be ridiculous!"

"The task we require you for is much more difficult," Firmin stated hesitatingly.

"What do you need me to do?" Kayla asked warily.

The managers exchanged a worried look before Andre slowly answered.

"Talk to la Carlotta, of course."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Thank you all for reading, please review or PM with questions, comments, critiques, or any other ideas for the three months of Elysian Peace. Quite a few of you have already given me some great ideas, so thank you! And thanks for everyone who reviewed, followed, or favourited for the last chapter!<strong>

**Thanks! **

**Tierney **


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera belongs to Webber, Leroux, etc. **

* * *

><p><span>20<span>

Kayla's jaw dropped open, but she recovered quickly and chuckled. "You're kidding, right?"

The managers shook their heads.

Staring at them skeptically, Kayla inquired, "Why on Earth would you need me to talk to Carlotta?"

"Andre and I are of the opinion that La Carlotta should return to the Opera Populaire," Firmin spoke nervously. "We understand that Ms. Daäe is supremely talented and that she is… favoured, but Carlotta is just as talented, more experienced, and extremely popular with the public."

"You don't think you can afford to lose her," Kayla translated.

"No," Firmin agreed. "We cannot."

Kayla pursued her lips. "That still doesn't explain why you need me."

"We thought that a bit of gentler persuasion would be more effective," Andre reasoned, "As Firmin and I are not exactly in her good graces. And as a new member of the company, we felt that you would have the least amount of bias for the situation."

Kayla could not believe what she was hearing. "The first interaction I ever had with her was _a threat_," she emphasized. "And I sassed her from then on out. How could this possibly be a good idea?" In fact, as the omniscient presence, who had watched different versions of this story, in its entirety, more times than she could count, Kayla could not think of a single person with more bias that she had.

"You stood up to her," Andre argued. "And I have a feeling that she respects you for it."

"You don't have any other options?" Kayla asked after a pregnant pause. The managers shook their heads again. "Fine. I'll do it," Kayla sighed morosely.

Firmin and Andre looked excited and relieved. "Thank you, mademoiselle," Firmin stated gratefully.

Andre bounced to his feet and clapped his hands. "Excellent! I will call the carriage!" He bounded out of the room.

"Where are we going, exactly?" Kayla realized abruptly, turning to Firmin.

"Signora Giudicelli's residence," Firmin replied. "Andre and I will be waiting in the lobby. Take your time," he directed graciously.

"Thank you, monsieur," Kayla curtsied and walked out of the office as quickly as propriety allowed. Once she had shut the door, she whipped around and sprinted down the hallway. Skidding around the corner, she ran straight into someone walking the other way. She and the person with whom she had collided toppled to the ground with a thud. "Helvete! Jävla helvete, I am so sorry…" she shrieked, but her voice trailed off as she realized that the person whom she had bowled over and was now draped unceremoniously on top of was none other than Raoul de Chagny. Dammit.

"Mademoiselle Abbot," the Vicomte greeted, grinning up at her in what appeared to be genuine delight. "It is a pleasure to see you!" His blue eyes were very amused, and today his hair looked golden brown, like toffee.

Blushing furiously, Kayla scrambled off his chest and held out her hand to help him up. "I am terribly sorry, Vicomte," she apologized, her voice stiff with embarrassment. "Are you alright?"

Raoul took her offered hand and stood up. "I have been in worse pain," he joked good-naturedly. "My brother Philippe used to knock me down harder than that… he still does, in fact."

It took Kayla a couple of seconds to realise that he had not let go of her hand. "I need to go," she stuttered awkwardly. "Sorry again for knocking you over." She tried to extract her hand, but he had a grip like iron. Just when she was considering punching him as her only available option of escape, he spoke.

"Of course," Raoul purred, raising her hand to his lips and kissing it before he relinquished his grip. "Your cheek is healing, I trust?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Kayla stammered, confused by the question. It took her a moment to conclude that he was most likely referring to the handprint left by Buquet after the first performance. "I've gotta go, bye!" And, screw propriety, she bolted down the hallway like a bat out of hell.

"I will see you soon, Mademoiselle Abbots!" Raoul called after her.

Kayla did not stop running until she hit the stage. It was empty, unlit and dreary. She kicked the wall, her boots producing a satisfying thud. "Shit," she spat. She could not understand why she was so unnerved by the interaction with Raoul, though it was probably because she tended to overanalyze and stress over almost every awkward encounter she had with another human being. Why did he even remember her name? In addition, the hand holding incident was weird, if not bordering on creepy. Would that have counted as harassment back home?

_Hello? Hellooooo? Earth to Abbots?_ her brain interjected. _Don't you have a Prima Donna to persuade? _

_Oh. Right._

Kayla halted her abuse of the wall and headed back up the stairs to the dorm.

When she entered the room, a few of the dancers were awake and moving around, but most were still unmoving lumps. Meg was awake, but still sitting in her bed. To Kayla's surprise, Christine was sitting next to her friend. The two girls had their heads together and were whispering conspiratorially when Kayla scurried up and kneeled down to unlock her trunk.

"Morning, Kayla," Meg whispered, smiling kindly at her.

"Hiya, Meg," Kayla chirped, rummaging through the pile of fabric.

"What are you doing?" Christine wondered softly, watching Kayla's actions curiously.

"The managers – curse them – have decided that I am going with them to try to convince Carlotta to come back," Kayla yipped with sarcastic cheeriness.

Christine and Meg both clapped their hands theatrically over their mouths and stared at Kayla in horror. "But why?" Christine murmured her face downcast. "Was I not good enough? Is_ he_ disappointed in me?"

"I don't think your Angel's disappointed with your _singing_, sweetheart," Kayla quipped. "There could be something else though. _He_ doesn't have anything to do with this; the managers just wanted some sort of insurance in case the pressure gets to you. Congrats on your engagement, by the way," she added, taking a cursory glance at Christine's swan-like throat, where the glint of a gold chain was visible. With a jolt, Kayla realized that the soprano's chain was identical to the one which was hidden under her shirt, locked around her own neck.

"How…" Christine began, while Meg looked shocked.

"You owe me ten francs at payday, Giry," Kayla chuckled, continuing her search through the trunk. Sitting back on her heels, she moaned, "What _the hell_ does one wear to a diva's house? I sure as hell can't wear pants."

Meg sprang up immediately. "Oh, let me help!" she offered, kneeling next to Kayla on the wooden floor and peering into the trunk. And thus, power was transferred to the two sixteen year olds. Meg and Christine made Kayla put on the floor length black skirt, and were trying to force Kayla into a corset before Kayla put her foot down. Thankfully, the grey blouse was not too tight without the corset.

When she was dressed in the grey blouse, black skirt, and black stockings, Meg pushed Kayla down to sit on the bed, bounced behind her, and began to French-braid the older girl's hair. Christine, meanwhile, began to line Kayla's eyes with black kohl. "I feel like a doll," Kayla giggled, trying to stay completely still so the two girls could work.

"I am only going to line your eyes," Christine decided, finishing and setting the cosmetics aside. "Simplicity is the best method, I think. If you look too fancy, Carlotta may feel threatened."

"Good thinking," Meg agreed, knotting the end of Kayla's braid with what felt like a ribbon.

"Thank you, Christine and Meg," Kayla acknowledged with a grateful grin. "This is kind of a new thing for me."

"You mean you have never dressed up?!" Meg yelped, sounding scandalized.

"I don't get out much," Kayla shrugged, knowing that even though these girls were her almost-friends, the revelation of being from another century would end the camaraderie in a flash. Along with her life, as the Phantom would most likely take her out. Very violently. Technically, she dressed up in her own time period, but she had never been styled for 1870, so she was not _really_ lying to Meg…

"Oh, you poor thing," Christine cooed sympathetically, sounding very much like a mother. Kayla resisted the urge to laugh.

"But I can't see you guys getting out very much," Kayla commented as the two girls stood her up and directed her toward a long mirror at the other end of the dorm. "Living in an opera house under Madame Giry's guardianship."

"We get out enough," Meg smirked, positioning Kayla in front of the mirror before stepping back.

When Kayla saw her reflection, it took her a moment to comprehend exactly what she was looking at. The girl in the mirror was elegant, poised, and the picture of class. The black and grey of her outfit made her skin look paler, and the kohl made her blue eyes pop. Her skirt brushed over the tops of her work boots, which were the only shoes she currently had, but their presence did not detract from the appearance. In short, her reflection looked like the perfect model of a nineteenth century lady. Kayla reached up and ran her fingers over the tight French-braid, pulling the end forward to reveal the azure blue silk ribbon that Meg had used to fasten the blonde strands. "I look good," Kayla snickered, turning to examine her profile. "You can do my makeup every day, Christine, how about that?" The young singer glowed happily with Kayla's praise.

Kayla pulled the two girls forward, looping her arms over their shoulders. "Look at us!" she exclaimed, staring at the three girls reflected in the mirror. The golden haired dancer, blonde stage manager, and brunette soprano smiled from out of the liquid glass. "We are hot!"

Meg and Christine giggled at Kayla's excitement. "Thank you for your help, darlings, but I must be off now," Kayla announced, giving the two girls a quick squeeze before dropping her arms and turning away from the mirror.

"Good luck, Kayla," Meg laughed, looking very pleased the product of her handiwork.

"Take a cloak with you; it snowed quite a bit yesterday," Christine advised confidently. Kayla clearly recognized the unconscious allusion to the rooftop sojourn of the previous night.

"Oh, that reminds me!" Meg yelped, scurrying to her own trunk. Across the smooth wood was draped a thick, royal blue cloak with a hood. "This is yours," the ballerina explained, holding the garment out to Kayla. "Maman came by this morning to give it to you, but you weren't here."

Kayla accepted the cloak with a nod of thanks. "Merci, to both of you. The managers are expecting me, so I must be off." With a final wave to her famous new friends, Kayla hurried back out of the door.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: So, this chapter is posted a day early because my stressful exam week starts tomorrow and I most likely won't be able to post. Therefore, here is a chapter today. I'll see if I can post tomorrow, but unfortunately no guarantees on that. <strong>

**Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favourited, or followed, and thanks to E-man-dy-s, my guest reviewer from the last chapter. **

**Hopefully you enjoyed this one, and remember, feel free to drop me a line if you have questions, comments, or critiques, or can think of anything else for the three months of Elysian peace! **

**Thanks!**

**Tierney **


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note: Still do not own Phantom of the Opera.**

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><p><span>21<span>

He did not mean to see the three girls in the mirror. Erik had simply been on a tour of the tunnels and passages, checking that all the entrances were still concealed and secure. It did not help that he was bored. The adrenaline from Buquet's death had worn off, and he was finding himself obsessed with the potential uses of the girl from the future. Did she know _his_ future? How was his story to end? The idea was driving him insane, and he decided that an inspection of the Opera's tunnels would be routine enough to take his mind off of her, not to mention his Angel and the fop.

He turned the corner to the mirror passage in the dancers' dorm, intent on simply checking for any cracks or gaps in the defenses, and then leaving without any further observations. Erik had no interest in watching the silly ballet rats. He may be a Phantom, but he was not without chivalry.

As he completed the quick scan of the tunnel, he lifted his head and found himself looking out of the mirror. Stopping short, he stared.

Three girls were framed behind the tinted glass. Little Meg Giry and his Angel were standing behind a strange young woman, beaming as the unknown girl seemed to examine her own reflection. A black skirt reached down to the floor, and a slate blouse lightly hugged her curves. Her streaky blonde hair was arranged in a tight braid. The girl laughed. "I look good," came her muffled comment. The tone and pitch was unmistakable. It was Mademoiselle Abbots.

Erik gaped at the transformation. He had not recognized her out of her work clothes. His new stage manager had morphed into a very noble lady. Behind her, Christine grinned widely, and Erik felt his heart clench in pain. He could see the chain around her neck, upon which she was most likely carrying the fop's ring. He held back a growl.

Abbots reached behind her and drew the two younger girls forward to stand next to her. Resting her arms on their shoulders, she grinned into the mirror, almost appearing to be looking into Erik's eyes. "Look at us!" she cried admiringly. "We are hot!"

The three girls giggled, and Erik found his lips curling upward without his consent. Grinning into the mirror, they looked like goddesses, confident in their immortality. He could not even summon up his anger at Christine's betrayal. Looking at the joy and youth of the young women in the mirror, Erik found himself feeling something akin to happiness. "Thank you for your help darlings, but I must be off now," Abbots explained distantly, turning away. The other two also swivelled around. The spell broken, Erik spun and walked back down the tunnel, unable to quench the soft smile that lit up his masked features.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Just a little bonus chapter for you all in return for not posting yesterday. It's not very long, but hopefully the slight KaylaErik interaction will make it worth it. **

**Thanks for reading, and please review, follow, or favourite if you get a chance! **

**Thanks!**

**Tierney **


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note: Phantom of the Opera has never and most likely never will belong to little old me, so continue to thank Webber, Leroux, and others for their fine contributions to musical, literary, and cinematic masterpieces. **

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><p><span>22<span>

It did not take very long for Kayla to retrace the route from the dorm to the managers' office, and from there to the lobby. The two managers were waiting patiently by the door, attired in their thick coats and furs and top hats. "Mademoiselle!" Firmin greeted as Kayla pattered down the wide staircase. "Thank you for your haste. The carriage is waiting outside, if you would please follow us." With that, Firmin strode out the front doors.

Andre, however, stood by while Kayla threw the cloak over her shoulders, tied the thick silky ribbon around her neck, and snuck her iPhone into a handy little pouch inside of the cloak. "You look very nice, Ms. Abbots," he complimented warmly, offering Kayla his arm as they moved toward the door.

"Thank you, Monsieur Andre," Kayla replied with a cheeky grin. "You don't look too bad yourself."

The pair walked quickly down the marble steps to the main doors. There was a long line of richly dressed people waiting on the shallow stairs outside the opera house, probably in a queue for tickets, as Kayla and Andre exited the Populaire. Kayla could not pay attention to the crowd of their future audience, because Paris was covered in snow.

Fat, fluffy flakes were drifting gracefully out of the soft bluish grey sky, and the lampposts, railings, and buildings were all blanketed with thick drifts of white. The sky was cloudy, but the snow was sparkling on the ground. The trees on the avenue glittered with frost. Kayla, completely accustomed to the harsher bleakness of a Calgarian winter, found the scene utterly magical.

Andre held open the door and helped her into the carriage. Smoothing out her skirt as she settled herself on the cushy seat, Kayla peered out at the winter wonderland of the city as the two managers sat down on the seat opposite. "How far away is Carlotta's place?" Kayla inquired offhandedly as, with a loud creak, the wheels began to move and the horses' harnesses began to jingle as the carriage began its journey.

"Not very long," Firmin replied, taking off his hat and setting it down on his lap. "Signora Giudicelli's townhouse is in the northern area of the city. It will not take long." The sleek haired manager leaned back in his seat and stared up at the ceiling as if settling in for a long vigil. Kayla watched him for a moment more, but as no further information was forthcoming from either him or Andre, she too relaxed into the cushions and watched as the snowy streets of Paris passed them by.

When Firmin had mentioned Carlotta's "townhouse", Kayla, in all her modern thinking, had pictured a tall, sophisticated brick structure, like something out of _the Devil Wears Prada_. When she recalled that she was in nineteenth century France, her mind immediately leapt to pictures she had seen of Versailles, which she was not even sure existed yet. Carlotta's residence ended up being more like a tremendously intimidating version of _Pride and Prejudice's_ Pemberly. The carriage stopped in front of a large, black, iron-wrought gate, and it was pulled open by a group of white-wigged men in plum livery. The enormous front lawn was piled high with snowbanks. Pulling around a tall fountain, the carriage halted in front of the grand front door.

"What do you want me to tell her, exactly?" Kayla asked, suddenly quite nervous.

"Whatever you think will convince her to return," Firmin whispered simply.

"We have complete faith in you," Andre put in reassuringly as another purple-coated man walked down the steps. "We will be waiting out here when you are done."

_So no pressure_, Kayla thought sourly, realizing that they expected this to be a quick visit. The carriage door opened, and Kayla clumsily got out. "Merci," she said to the servant who had opened the door, and the elderly gentleman smiled and bowed.

Kayla put her hand self-consciously to her throat, where the rose pendant was radiating warmth. She took a deep breath. _All right, relax, it'll be fine_, she told herself sternly.

The same male servant opened the gleaming wooden double doors, gestured Kayla into the mansion, and shut them behind her. Kayla stood awkwardly in the entrance hall for a lonely moment before a maid in a matching plum uniform and a jaunty little black muffin cap came scurrying down the stairs. "Are you here to see Signora Giudicelli?" the girl questioned as she hurried towards Kayla.

"If she will see me," Kayla confirmed dryly. "I'm assuming she's in a foul mood?"

The maid – who looked to be about Meg and Christine's age – nodded. "She's in a right temper, madame, but I will ask if she will see you. Would you like to sit down?" The girl held out a pair of luxurious looking bedroom slippers. "I hope you do not mind taking off your boots."

_Finally, a recognizable custom!_ Kayla inwardly cheered at the reference to Canadian culture, even though she felt slightly in over her head. "Yes, of course," she consented, bending down and deftly unlacing her leather boots. Leaving them by the front door, along with her cloak, and sliding on the warm slippers, Kayla followed the young maid into a sitting room.

"Please, sit," the maid offered with a curtsey. "I will tell Signora Giudicelli you are here. Shall I give a name?" she added, looking at Kayla expectantly.

"Kayla Abbots," Kayla replied politely. "Thank you."

"Make yourself comfortable, Madame Abbots," the maid finished, and whisked away again. Kayla resisted the urge to comment that she was a twenty year old single girl, not even close to a madame.

Lowering herself gingerly onto a couch, Kayla glanced at the room around her. The couch she was sitting on was covered in lovely fuchsia velvet; most of the seats in room were, in fact, warm-palate velvet. All the wood visible was stained in a dark brown shade, and gleaming with polish. The wooden floors were covered with flashily patterned Persian carpets, thick and fluffy with golden cord tassels. Glass cabinets standing like sentries along the walls held various trinkets and baubles. One, Kayla was surprised to note, housed an extensive collection of delicate china teacups. The walls were papered with an ornate design of golden blossoms and vines, but barely any was visible under all the posters and rather conceited artwork hung on the wall; every single one heavily featured Carlotta.

Kayla was staring blankly at a particularly garish portrait of Carlotta and Piangi when an unholy shriek drifted violently from upstairs. Stifling an exclamation of her own, Kayla perched rigidly on the edge of the couch as footsteps thundered through the frescoed ceiling above. Feeling quite out of place in her skirt and blouse, about to face the dreaded tempest of a star, Kayla took a preparatory breath_. Face the music_, she reassured herself.

The apparently angry prima donna stormed down the stairs, heels clicking loudly as she traversed the marble foyer. As she turned into the sitting room, the singer's eyes met Kayla's, and the diva stopped short. "You!" she yelped, pointing an accusatory finger at Kayla.

"Me indeed," returned Kayla dryly.

Carlotta hovered uncertainly in the doorway for a moment more before she swept inside and plopped down on a bright pink chaise lounge with a huff. "What are you doing here?" the Italian woman demanded. "The managers sent you, didn't they?"

"I'll admit, it wasn't my first choice of assignment," Kayla confirmed coldly.

Leaning back on the tall cushions of the chaise, Carlotta sighed heavily. The prima donna's thick red curls were tied back with a simple cream ribbon, and her olive skin was glowing, clear, and natural. Without the regular layer of cosmetics, Carlotta's face was actually quite pretty; she looked younger, and her features were softer. A cerulean blue satin house coat was draped loosely around her long, white cambric night gown. Though she had most likely just gotten out of bed, Carlotta looked ready for a _Vogue_ photo shoot.

"Let me guess: they want me back," Carlotta exclaimed tiredly, her bold black lashes fluttering shut. "I don't see why they would send you. They have less of a chance of convincing me than anyone from that tasteless place."

"That's what I told Firmin and Andre," Kayla shrugged, flipping her streaky blonde braid back over her shoulder. "I told them there wasn't much that could get you back, but would they listen? No! The only person more stubborn than those two is you."

Carlotta lifted her head and squinted at Kayla. For a moment, Kayla worried about getting evicted from the premises, but the diva simply cackled. "No one has ever said anything to me that can compare to the outrageous insults you pay me. I like you."

"I don't see anything endearing about me continuously sassing you," Kayla remarked, relaxing onto the couch. She had not expected Carlotta to be this easy-going.

"Everyone else, they just flatter, flatter, flatter," Carlotta stated, waving a manicured hand dismissively in the air. "But you, you tell it like you see it – you don't care about getting on my good side. I respect that."

"You do the same thing," Kayla pointed out, grinning.

"Exactly!" Carlotta cried. "We are alike, you and I. Neither of us is worried about impressing the other."

"So, am I correct in sensing a 'screw the drama, let's be friends'?" Kayla joked.

"Allies," Carlotta clarified, sitting up and holding her hand out to Kayla, who looked apprehensively at it for a moment before reaching out and shaking the diva's hand.

"Allies," Kayla agreed strongly. Carlotta released her grip, and both women leaned back in their seats again.

"Those managers, they think they can convince me to come back, just like that?" Carlotta seethed, twisting on the chaise lounge to stare out the window at the managers' coach. "Lure me back in with jewels and chocolates and doggies, like some sort of spoiled baby."

"You do have to admit, though, storming out in the middle of rehearsal is kind of infantile," Kayla suggested hesitatingly, not positive how her new "ally" would react.

"The manager before, Leverfe, wouldn't listen to me unless I made a scene," Carlotta sniffed. "Is it so bad that I want to set a high standard for the opera?"

"No," Kayla responded slowly. "It's just that maybe not everyone is able to reach your standards, and I tend to doubt that many people have as much invested in a performance as you do."

"I'm not going back," Carlotta muttered rebelliously, shutting her eyes again.

Kayla knew for an absolute fact that Carlotta _would_ return to the Opera Populaire, but she knew that convincing the soprano to come back would require great diplomatic skill to achieve. "I guess they'll be casting Christine as the Countess for the rest of the Il Muto shows, then," she sighed, glancing at Carlotta out of the corner of her eye.

"That _puttana_ Daäe?" Carlotta snarled, bolting upright. "Why would they cast her?"

"You have to hand it to her, she has a beautiful voice," Kayla commented mildly. "She can hit all the high notes, the audience seems to love her, and she's a lovely little thing. She loves singing, you can tell. And the poor dear's trying so hard."

Carlotta glared at the young stage manager, but said nothing. So Kayla plunged ahead.

"She's a gentler, more modern soprano, but she doesn't have the same experience, stage presence, or operatic vibrato, which is why the managers are still pushing to bring you back," Kayla explained, glancing out the window at the courtyard, where the coach sat as the grey horses pranced impatiently. "I was thinking about that earlier, and I figured out a plan that could work… but you probably don't want to hear it, since your mind's made up," she added teasingly.

Carlotta's eyes narrowed. "I'm listening," she stated warily.

Kayla readied her arguments. "What I was thinking," she began, "was that you and Christine share the prima donna position." Carlotta's eyes bulged, and the diva opened her mouth to protest. "Oh no, you don't, I'm not finished and you are going to hear me out," Kayla admonished, raising an eyebrow at the singer. "Both of you seem to have a significant amount of admirers, so completely cutting one of you out of the cast would take away a significant portion of the Populaire's audience. So we would have to determine a system by which all of our audiences remain happy." Kayla paused, trying to gauge Carlotta's reaction, but the prima donna's expression remained neutral.

"Go on," Carlotta prompted brusquely, but the fact that the soprano was still intrigued by her speech encouraged Kayla.

"My idea," Kayla continued, "was to have you and Christine alternate playing the lead for performances; so she would sing lead for one performance, and you would perform the next night. Both of you would have the option of taking secondary roles on your off nights. Neither you nor Christine would have to give up the lead; you'd still be a major part of all the shows; and it would likely make your jobs less stressful. And the opera wouldn't lose revenue," she concluded.

Carlotta was completely silent, and Kayla feared that her idea had not been received well. "Being prima donna seems like a lot of pressure to put on one person," Kayla remarked, staring at her hands. "It was just an idea," she added lamely when no opinion from Carlotta was forthcoming. Resigned that convincing the diva would not be a success today, Kayla rose to her feet. "I am sorry that I could not convince you," Kayla stated, trying to mask her disappointment. "I'll go now; the mangers are waiting outside for me." Struggling with the heavy black skirt, Kayla turned towards the door.

"Sit down, Abbots!" Carlotta barked.

Kayla hit the cushion with the split-second reaction time of one who had spent a lifetime as an obedient older sister.

Carlotta swung her legs over the edge of the chaise so she was sitting upright and facing Kayla. The prima donna examined Kayla's face, scrutinizing. "If I was to agree to this," she said slowly. "And Daäe gave up; I would be full prima donna, yes?"

"I suppose so," Kayla shrugged, trying to supress the bubble to hope expanding in her chest. "But I don't think she'll give up. I have a feeling that her more dubious ally can be very… persuasive."

At the subtle hint of Opera Ghost, Carlotta visibly shuddered. "What kind of hold does it have? That a spectre has so much control over our lives."

"Blackmail and death threats," Kayla suggested promptly, relaxing into the embroidered cushions. "The use of state enforced force and terror to control its citizens and eliminate dissent. That's how most dictators get their stuff done."

At this, Carlotta threw back her head and laughed. "A dictator," she chortled. "I have never thought of it that way, but yes, that so-called ghost is one." The diva grinned broadly at Kayla before swiveling around to face the door. "Minette!" she yelled.

The maid from earlier rushed into the room seconds later. "Yes, signora?"

"Tell Benedict to make the managers leave," Carlotta ordered, tugging on a red curl that had escaped from its tie.

Shooting a quick glance at Kayla, Minette queried, "What shall we tell them if they ask after Madame Abbots?"

"Mademoiselle," Carlotta corrected carelessly. "Tell them I wish to speak with her for a while longer, and they needn't wait."

Minette cracked a small smile. "Very cryptic, signora," she complimented. "Will you need anything else?"

"Some tea, brought up to the music room," Carlotta requested. "Thank you, Minette."

"Of course, signora," Minette acknowledged with a perfect curtsey, and walked calmly back into the foyer.

Kayla and Carlotta exchanged and brief, mysterious look before hopping off their chairs and sneaking over to the window, where they knelt under the sill to spy.

The dignified doorman moved briskly down the front steps to the carriage. The window was opened, and Firmin stuck his head out. Kayla could hear none of the conversation, but the manager appeared to be speaking quite vehemently. Andre's round face joined Firmin's a moment later, and the grey-haired manager looked worried. There were a couple minutes of terse conversation, sensing argument was futile, nodded and disappeared from view. The driver cracked the whip, and the horses and carriage trotted down the lane and out of the iron-gate.

Kayla turned to Carlotta with a quizzical smile on her narrow face. "So, what's the plan?" she ventured. "If none of this works out, you could always kill me and make it look like an accident."

Carlotta, who seemed to appreciate Kayla's morbid sense of humor, grinned. "We go to the music room," she said simply, rising elegantly to her feet. "Come."

Clambering to a standing position, Kayla repositioned her skirt again and followed the diva out of the sitting room. The two women strolled down the wide, airy hallway, passing a multitude of closed mahogany doors and open archways alike before Carlotta finally stopped. "Here we are!" she cried, flinging open a set of shiny wood and glass double doors and whisking inside. Kayla followed cautiously.

The room was large, practically the double the size of Kayla's apartment back home. The walls were a deep yet gentle shade of rose. There were two golden framed, floor-to- ceiling mirrors that Kayla eyed suspiciously before turning her attention away. Large windows on one end of the room looked out onto the snow covered garden and grounds, while a cheerful fireplace crackled away on the opposite wall. A harp stood proudly in a corner, along with a guitar, but the crowning jewel was the gleaming grand piano in the centre of the room. The ivory keys shone, and the darkly stained wood was polished to perfection.

"That is a gorgeous piano!" Kayla gasped.

"Do you play?" Carlotta asked.

Kayla shrugged. "I took lessons when I was younger, and I remember a few pieces, but I'm no expert. My sister's a genius, though. Do you?"

"No, I don't play," Carlotta snickered, sliding her manicured hand over the gleaming wood. "I just like the way it looks." Without warning, Carlotta nudged Kayla closer. "Play something," she requested.

"I'm not very good," Kayla protested dubiously.

"Just do it," Carlotta smirked.

Kayla carefully manoeuvered herself onto the bench, tapping her toes experimentally on the shiny golden pedals. _What to play?_ Kayla only knew a select number of simple pieces that Samantha had taught her to play, and she was not an expert at any of them. So it was with great caution that she began to piece out "No One Would Listen", Gerald Butler's gorgeous solo, which had been, much to her dismay, cut from the 2004 film and soundtrack, and not even a part of the stage performances, but was easily accessible on her dear friend, YouTube. It was short, simple, and belonged in the movieverse – perfect.

Carlotta stood by and listened in silence as Kayla coaxed the notes from the beautiful instrument. "You should talk to Maestro Reyer," she suggested as Kayla finished the song. "You could probably play piano for the orchestra."

Kayla raised an eyebrow at the diva. "In addition to managing the set crew? Good luck with that," she returned. "And that would be ignoring the fact that I can't read music to save my life."

There was a soft knock on the doorframe, and Minette walked briskly into the room, carrying a full tea tray. Setting it down on a table by the window, the maid turned to Carlotta and asked, "Will you need anything else, signora?"

"No, that will suffice, thank you Minette," Carlotta answered. The maid curtsied and left.

Kayla rose from the piano and followed Carlotta to a small seating area by the window. "That's one of the only songs I know how to play," she mentioned ruefully as the diva poured the tea. "I'm not even remotely orchestra worthy. My sister, on the other hand, would love it."

"Enough whining about your 'lack of talent'," Carlotta snapped. "Tell me about your sister."

And thus, Kayla found herself discussing her younger sister with an apparently interested prima donna whist sipping tea out of flowery china cups. The topic then jumped from Samantha to Carlotta's family life, at which time Carlotta explained that she and Piangi were not actually married, an arrangement that Kayla privately resolved to rectify. From Piangi it moved to Italy – "It was so sunny and warm," Carlotta sighed, "None of this awful cold and snow," – and from there to the ridiculous amount of snow, at which point Kayla laughed and proceeded to explain the violence and unpredictability of Calgarian weather. After that, they argued over the superiority of different dog breeds; Carlotta adored her tiny miniature poodles, while Kayla, though more inclined towards cats, preferred larger, intelligent dogs, and had a deep seeded dislike of any dogs shorter than her knee.

When Kayla finally glanced up at the clock, she was shocked to see it was half past noon. "Shoot, it's late!" she exclaimed, struggling to her feet. "The managers will be wondering where I am!"

Carlotta lazily followed Kayla's gaze and shrugged. "Let them wonder," she sneered. "I'm in no hurry. Let them worry."

"So you are coming back, then?" Kayla clarified slyly.

Carlotta rolled her eyes dramatically but nodded in defeat. "Yes!" Kayla cheered, pumping her fist in the air.

"Come with me," Carlotta ordered briskly as she sashayed to the door. "I want you to write up the terms of the arrangement with Daäe." Kayla stuffed two more cookies in her mouth before following the diva. Following Carlotta up a wide, curved staircase to the second floor of the manor, Kayla let the prima donna lead the way into a large bedroom, presumably Carlotta's. The diva in question hurried into a walk-in closet, screaming for Minette.

"You wanted me to write up the terms of your surrender?" Kayla inquired sarcastically.

"Yes," Carlotta barked. "There is paper on the desk."

Kayla looked around the luxurious chamber, drinking in the rich fabrics and gilded décor. When her eyes finally landed on the gleaming mahogany desk, she sauntered towards it. Carefully picking up a fancy fountain pen and a sheet of crested stationary, Kayla sat down. "What do you want me to write?" she called.

"Your explanation," Carlotta replied from the closet. "Sharing the position, alternating shows, option for secondary roles, phrased so she can't argue. Whatever keeps the so-called Opera Ghost off our backs."

As Minette helped Carlotta into a flashy red dress with gold beading, wide, ruffled, hooped skirt, sweeping neckline, and elbow sleeves, Kayla neatly wrote up the terms of agreement. Every so often, Carlotta would think up another point she wanted, and Kayla would add it. By the time Carlotta was dressed, fully made up and hair styled, the lengthy contract was complete. "Sign here," Kayla indicated, handing the pen to the diva. Carlotta signed her name in large, loopy script, and tossed the pen aside.

"Come," Carlotta snapped, grabbing the cloak Minette held out for her as she marched out the door.

"Thanks, Minette," Kayla whispered, with a smile for the young maid.

"My pleasure, mademoiselle," Minette grinned.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: It's a day early, but what the heck. Might as well get another chapter up. This is a long one today, and hopefully the Kayla and Carlotta interactions weren't too bad... Let's be clear, they are allies, rather than friends, and will continue to sass and insult each other for the remainder of Kayla's stay, but they can work together and be civil. Kayla is going to try to survive in the Populaire diplomatically, so she's going to try to avoid enemies. <strong>

**Anyway, thanks if you read this far. Review or PM with questions, comments, or Elysian peace months brainstorms, and follow or favourite if the mood strikes you. To all those who reviewed for the last couple of chapters, thank you very much, and special notice to Samantha and E-man-dy-S, my two guest reviewers. If I didn't PM a thank you for anyone' s review in the last couple of chapters, forgive me; I had my last exam yesterday and things were incredibly hectic with studying and such. **

**Thanks everyone!**

**Tierney **


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